


Stars in Our Hands

by indecentpause



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, F/F, Happily Ever After Ending, Lots of Angst but a HEA Ending, Misogyny, POV Second Person, Sex Work, Transphobia, minor depictions of violence, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-10-23 21:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10727382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indecentpause/pseuds/indecentpause
Summary: When Estrella is picked up by the paramedics after she's attacked, romance is the last thing on her mind. All she wants is to get healed and go home. But Dani, one of the paramedics, gives Estrella her number in case she needs help, intending it to be used for difficulties with her treatment. And so begins their struggle to get Estrella out of the dangerous life that led them to meet, and the beginning of Estrella's first time falling in love.[COMPLETE]





	1. Chapter 1

Loud, clipped voices shout all around you and the words are so foreign they may as well be in a language you don’t understand. They might be. Your eyes flutter open and you draw in a choking wheeze and squeeze them closed again, because with vision comes pain, _oh_ , sharp and heavy in your stomach. Your breathing is wet.

“He’s conscious,” you hear a man yell, and it’s almost enough to bring you back, nails clawing and teeth bared, because how _dare_ they, while you’re already so _vulnerable_.

“What’s her pulse?” a woman, this time, and you almost think you can hear an emphasis on your pronoun, but you’re so dizzy and —

“Weak. Blood pressure decreasing. Respiratory rate thirty one per minute, increasing.”

“Josh, ETA?” the woman shouts.

“Two streets over. Less than one minute.”

“Hey, hey.”

Your eyelids flutter again, just long enough to catch the face that the woman’s voice belongs to.

Your name is Estrella Diaz, and you may be dying, but at least the angel who’s moving you on to the afterlife is really, _really_ pretty.

* * *

 

Bright lights. Mottled grey and white ceilings. More medical terminology you don’t understand, except things like “blood loss, 34%”. _You_? Oh, god, how did you even _survive_ that?

Sharp pain and stiffness in the back of your hand, a chill in your arm. Again, you hear the voice of that woman from the… ambulance? You weren’t _really_ dying. She wasn’t _really_ an angel. That’s stupid.

“ _Her_ name is Estrella Diaz,” she says. Again, the pronoun emphasis. “She doesn’t have any family. Her emergency contact in her phone is a Marshall Garcia.”

“Boyfriend? Husband?”

“I don’t know. All he said was ‘shit, where is she?’ and once I gave him the address he hung up, so we can assume he’s on his way. You can ask him when he gets here.”

When you breathe it’s a little too hard, a little too forceful, and you wheeze and cough hard and oh god oh god your stomach seizes, sharp, and it’s like you’ve been _shot_ —

And that’s when everything comes back and you realize, that wasn’t quite it. You were _stabbed_ when —

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper. The woman —the paramedic, you now realize —pauses as she walks by your room. The curtain is pulled to the side just enough that you can see the curve of her chin. She knocks, softly, on the doorframe, then pulls the curtain aside to peer in.

“You all right?”

It takes all the effort your body can muster to turn to look at her.

“I mean,” she starts again, “is there anything I can get or do for you before I head out? Do you need a nurse?”

She’s a little taller than you, with broad shoulders and short, kinky brown hair that sticks up a little on the left side. Your eyes dart over her face, then finally, you sigh and shake your head. She glances over her shoulder and then slips inside the curtain, pulling a small notepad out of her back pocket and a pen from behind her ear. She scribbles something out and then hands it to you. Two phone numbers: one professional, one personal. The name just reads D. Cohen.

“If they give you any trouble with your name or pronouns or anything, call me, okay? Most of the doctors and nurses here are pretty good with the LGBT community, but, you know, there’s always going to be that asshole somewhere.”

You look up at her, mouth dry. The room is so dim you can barely see the color of her eyes, just her sharp jawline and strong neck.

“What?” you whisper.

She drops her voice. “We had to cut your clothes off to get to your wound and make sure there weren’t any more.”

You hiss in a slow, annoyed breath and close your eyes. “Fuck.”

“If you need anything,” she says, flicking her pen at the paper she’s given you. “I’ve got to go on my next call. They’re running us like dogs tonight. Take care, ma’am.”

* * *

 For a very long time, or maybe not, you fade in and out. Sometimes there are doctors, or nurses, or something, and once you ask one of them if you can have pain medication but she never follows up with you. When you finally start coming to for good, all you can feel is the dirt and tangles in your hair and the small amount of remaining gravel embedded in your arms. You carefully sweep off what you can, trying not to move too much, because you still haven’t gotten your fucking pain meds and you know they’re punishing you, whether because you’re a trans woman or a sex worker or Latina, you don’t know, but it’s irrelevant, because the result is the same: you are in a constant state of nausea and dizziness because it hurts so much. Mostly your stomach, but your arms, too. His handprint is bruised into your cheek and a wave of nausea pulses over you every time it throbs.

You thought word on the street made it _clear_ that you were a trans woman — that’s why people come to you, you’re a fantasy, a fetish, a… _thing_ to hit up for one night before going back to a wife or a girlfriend, and as sick as it makes you, it’s your selling point, and you sell _big_ —but apparently this man hadn’t heard, and he was _pissed_.

Gay panic, self defense. You tried to assault him or rob him. He could come up with any amount of bullshit defenses, and even if you tried to do anything about it, it wouldn’t be his trial, it would be _yours_.

You sigh and close your eyes, covering your face with your hand, careful to avoid the bruise.

A knock on the door frame again.

“Unless it’s urgent, _go away_ ,” you groan.

“Wow, rude. I drove like an hour and a half to get here.”

A smile spreads across your cracked lips, because you’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Marshall, I am so glad you’re here. Maybe you can get them to give me some fucking pain meds.” You drop your hand and gesture him in. “Pull up a chair. I’m pretty sure they’re just waiting until it’s safe to kick me out, so hopefully I won’t be here much longer.”

He frowns. “What’s going on?”

You sigh. “It’s just clear they don’t want me here. I’ve seen looks like that before. You know.”

His frown goes a little deeper and he breathes out hard through his nose. His brown eyes move from yours, over your face, and he starts to open his mouth to ask a question you aren’t prepared to answer so you ask, very abruptly, “What time is it?”

He glances down at his phone. “A little past five-thirty.”

When you frown, he continues, “A.M.”

Both of you fall silent for some time, then Marshall gently brushes his knuckles against your forearm, the one touch that is always safe, no matter what.

“I can’t afford to keep you in your apartment,” he says, “and I can’t do much to help you save up for —”

He falls silent when you glare, cold and hard, from the corners of your eyes. _Not here_.

“But my offer always stands. I can give you a couch and food and help you with your shots and shit, until you can get back on your feet. I don’t want you to have to do this anymore.”

_I don’t care what you want, Marshall_ , you want to say. _You don’t understand what it’s like in a place like this for people like me_ , you want to say _. There’s no other work available_ , you want to say.

What you don’t want is that harsh, tight prickle in your throat and the wetness in your eyes you have to cover up with the palm of your hand, because you are a grown-ass woman, but everything hurts so much, and you’re so scared of what happens next, and the police still haven’t come and you’re sure it’s just a matter of time before they walk through that curtain and blame everything that’s happened on you, and you were graying in and out for so long you don’t even know where you’ve been most of the night.

So even though you grit your teeth and try to even out your breathing, you cry anyway, and it hurts your stomach and it hurts your head and oh, _god_ , why can’t anything be _easy_ , just once, just once.

* * *

 You spend the next three nights at home, alone. You could call Marshall if you wanted to. He’d drop almost anything if you really, really needed him. But you don’t, not _really_ really, so instead you mess around on your laptop and watch a lot of crappy infomercials because you’re a night person, and sometimes you can sleep during the day but sometimes it hurts so much you can barely roll over.

They finally gave you pain medication — a prescription to take home — but the last thing you need is a cop to pick you up and then get you on a drug charge, too. But finally it gets to be too much, so you do take one, and then, after that, well, fuck it, right? It’s in your system so you may as well keep going.

Marshall calls you a lot, and you’ve gotten in touch with a few of the women you work Van Buren with so they know you aren’t dead and to make sure they pass on the name and description of yet _another_ man they’ll need to avoid. But you haven’t seen anyone and you don’t think you want to.

Finally, about a week later, you’re able to piece together most of the details from your discharge reports and some calls you’ve made inquiring about your bills. You were in surgery for a while — which you’d managed to gather from the stitches in your stomach —but what you didn’t know was they had to do a double layer. The police were never called because it was your fault since you dared to exist alone at night, and they decided to take pity on you. _Okay. Thanks, everyone._

Even so, while their reasoning was bullshit, it _will_ end up being a lot safer for you.

Then, on the eighth day, because you have literally nothing else to do, you sort through your wallet. You throw away all the old stamp cards and receipts and rearrange the ones you do still use. You’re about to throw away a little slip of lined paper when you see a scribbled “en” poking out of one of the folds. You pause, unfold it and inside it reads:

_D. Cohen. Personal #, Work #,_ with the two appropriate ones written afterward. You frown. Who…?

You put it on your bedside table to figure out later.

* * *

 As much as you wish you could hole yourself up safely in your apartment forever, you can’t keep spending so much time alone, and you aren’t nearly well enough to think about working again. With your new medical bills on top of all of your other expenses, you may end up on Marshall’s couch anyway, no matter _how_ much you don’t want to.

You grab your phone, cycling through your contacts list without dialing, then going through once more. You only have three people in there, two of whom no longer speak to you. Marshall it is. So you dial his number and ask him if he wants to go out for coffee at that place down the street.

“Yeah,” he says. “Always! You up for it, though?”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “If… if you could you pick me up?” you ask. “I don’t think I can walk over there.”

The wrinkle in his brow is almost audible in his voice. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Of course. I’ll be there soon.”

* * *

 

He calls you when he pulls into the parking lot and you say, “Actually, could you please come up to my place? I… I’ve got to talk to you about some stuff.”

“Let me park and I’ll be up,” he says, no questions, no complaints.


	2. Chapter 2

Marshall’s knock is quick and sharp, like his bones, like his wit; _one, two, three_. You let him in and he pauses by the door, waiting for you to make the next move.

“Um,” you say. You close the door, lock it, chain it. He keeps one eye on your hands as they move. “Sit down, I guess,” you say. “This is going to take a while so you may as well be comfortable.”

“Table, couch, bed?” he asks.

You pause, gnawing on your thumb. “Table,” you finally whisper, and you sit, quietly, across from each other.

* * *

 

Marshall is gorgeous. Even you think so, with his large brown eyes and curly black hair. His narrow shoulders, his flat hips. He’s not typically masculine; thin and angular and narrow where there’s usually bulk.

“You look _really_ good today,” you say.

He grins and winks at you. “You too.”

You laugh and gesture him to the table.

“So,” he says as he pulls out a chair, “are you finally going to give me the details that sent you to the ER?”

* * *

 

It takes hours. You’re still piecing things together and you use the time to try to find more of the puzzle, but even though you know you were in surgery, you don’t remember it, and you don’t remember the man’s face all that clearly, only his first name, and truthfully you’re more worried about the other women on your street than dealing with trying to press charges. Maybe you should just get into porn, you say, find a cool feminist collective that works in the area and do something there, because as long as you were in a good group, at least you would be safe.

“If you’re being serious, I can look around,” Marshall says. His voice is soft, his thin fingers wrapped around your wide ones. “I mean, _I_ have no idea, but I know people who might know people. I can ask around.”

“I was joking,” you whisper, but then, you say, “but, actually, that probably would be a good idea.”

“I take it that means you’ve still had no luck finding a regular job?”

You shake your head. “The second they see that M on the driver’s license, suddenly something’s changed and they’ll get in touch with me if it changes back. If they’re the nice ones.”

“Even in the gay district?”

You shoot him a glance and roll your eyes, propping your chin up with your fist and staring vacantly out the kitchen window across the room. “You mean the mile long stretch of street with a few restaurants and the Home Depot?”

He chuckles, but doesn’t disagree.

“Bunch of affluent white gay men calling me ‘tranny’ all day? I’ll pass. At least where I am now the other girls respect me.”

Marshall sighs, curling his fingers into yours, loosening them again. “Yeah,” he says. “I got you. It’s not so bad for me, I guess, because, you know, they see male as a step up. But I definitely see what you mean.”

You fall into silence for a while.

“So, hey,” he says. “Is there anything _not_ horrible and painful you wanted to talk about?”

You chuckle and glance back at him again. He’s half-smiling, trying to lighten the mood for you, because you don’t need any more dark thoughts than you already have.

You purse your lips as you think. “Well,” you say. “I cleaned out my wallet.”

“Exciting!” he says, with sarcastic jazz hands but a genuine smile.

“You asked.”

He shrugs.

“I found a number in it I don’t recognize, though. Like, it’s recent, because the folds are still sharp and the sides aren’t frayed and the pen isn’t faded. But I have no clue where it came from or who it belongs to. It just says ‘D. Cohen’ and has a personal and professional number.”

“A… client?” Marshall says, a little hesitantly. You shake your head.

“Never use last names. Sometimes not even first ones. It wouldn’t be.”

You both fall silent. You look over your nails, short and scrappy and broken. Ugh, maybe if you cleaned them up and painted them you’d feel a little better.

“Maybe it was someone on your treatment team?” he suggests. You glance up from your nails and curl them into your palm.

“Huh.” The possibility hadn’t even crossed your mind.

“They might be able to help you put the rest of it together,” he adds with a noncommittal shrug.

You lower your eyes, adjust the dress bunching up above your knees. It still hurts too much to wear pants, but it’s only September so it’ll be warm enough for at least two more months.

Your voice is soft when you look back up and ask, “If I call them, will you stay with me?”

He gives you a thumbs up, a strong nod, and a confident, “You _know_ I’ve got you, girl.” 

* * *

 

There’s a lot of stalling before you actually sit down with your phone. You make a pot of coffee, file down your nails (before they get caught on something, you explain, and Marshall gives you a skeptical look that clearly says _bitch, please_ , but doesn’t say anything out loud), and throw a frozen pizza in the oven for the both of you to share before you actually think about dialing the number.

But you can just hang up on them if you don’t want to talk. And if they call back, “Sorry, wrong number.” No big deal, life goes on, and nobody has to know.

So you dial the person’s private number. You glance up at Marshall and open your mouth, but then, the person answers with,

“Dani Cohen speaking.”

Your breath hitches and your hand shoots to your mouth, because you know that voice. The one that you heard while you were graying in and out in the back of the ambulance, the one that belongs to the paramedic with the broad shoulders and the long eyelashes and the strong neck and soft lips, the one you thought was an angel in your moment of blood-loss induced insanity.

“Hello?” she says.

She gave you her number at one point. Though you don’t remember why, you do remember her handing you some paper and saying… saying…

“Hello?”

“Hi,” you say, a little too quickly. “I’m sorry. I… I just wasn’t sure who to expect. I’m sorry. Yes. Hello. Hi.”

A pause. “ _You_ called _me_ though?” An unsure lilt tilts it up into a question. Another moment of silence. “Who is this?”

“I found your number in my wallet and didn’t know who it belonged to so I thought… you know, you must have wanted me to have it if you gave it to me, and…” You clear your throat, push your hair behind your ears, and say, “This is Estrella? I… are you that paramedic from when I was in the hospital a week ago?”

“Oh! Miss Diaz, hi!”

“Estrella,” you correct. “Please.”

“Estrella,” she says. “Call me Dani. How are you feeling? How’s your recovery going?”

“It’s… going,” you say. “I mean… it’s going.”

“Did they treat you okay at the hospital?”

You open your mouth, glance up at Marshall. Close it again, because you don’t want him to know any more than he already does about how you let them treat you.

“Estrella?” Both of them speak at once. You hold up your finger for Marshall and murmur, “Don’t say anything until I’m off the phone, okay?”

He nods. Your hand curls a little tighter around your phone and you lower your head. Your thick, uncontrollable black curls fall back into your face. “Other than withholding pain meds, it was okay, I guess. They just kind of… did their best to ignore me unless they absolutely couldn’t.”

Suddenly, Dani’s soft voice is hard, like concrete, when she says, “I’ll talk to the medical director. Do you have any names?”

“No, I… don’t,” you say. Your voice is suddenly soft, so tired, your eyes are hot and your throat sharp. “Don’t. It doesn’t matter. It won’t change anything. Don’t waste your time on me.”

“It’s not a waste of time,” she says. As suddenly as it hardened, her voice softens again, gentle, almost _sweet_. “But I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

“Don’t,” you repeat, soft, tired. “Please. I just want to forget about it and keep going. I don’t have the time or the energy or the resources to drag anything out. It’ll just complicate everything even more. It’s not worth it.”

"I understand,” she says.

“But… but thank you,” you say. “So much. I wasn’t really there in the ambulance but I was in enough to hear you correct that guy. And I heard you talking to the doctor or whoever. Thank you. Really.”

“Of course,” she says.

“ _Really_ ,” you repeat.

“Yeah.” Her voice is a little softer, now. “I mean, we’ve got to look out for each other. If we don’t take care of each other, no one else will.”

You intend to ask her what she means. Is she a sister? Does she just mean as women? Is she somewhere on the LGBT spectrum with you? Not that they could have known that you’re gay _anyway_ , but...

But instead, what you ask is, “Hey, are you allowed to meet patients for coffee?” And then you add, quickly, “I mean, I’m still pretty fuzzy on a lot of what happened and maybe you could help me clear it up?”

Because going on a date with the paramedic who picked you up past midnight after you’d been stabbed is _weird_ , right? Even though, under any other circumstance, you would ask her in a heartbeat. You don’t remember her too clearly, but she had a really nice face and she seemed so, _so_ kind, and in the past, that’s always been enough to try to get to know someone a little better.

Marshall hikes an eyebrow and purses his lips, and you wave your hand to shush him.

She laughs, big and bright, like the sun. “As long as you’re not in my rig and I’m not on the clock, sure.”

You smile, and give Marshall a thumbs up. He gives you a huge grin and a double thumbs up back.

* * *

 

You set a date-but-not-really for early afternoon the next day, and Dani even agrees to your regular place just down the street since you’re still in too much pain to travel very far. She seems surprised you even wanted to leave the house so early, but, as you say, “Dani, I’m about to start eating the pillows I’m going so crazy in here.”

She laughs and says, “Okay, then. If you’re sure.”


	3. Chapter 3

Marshall drives you to the coffee shop and offers to sit at a table nearby in case something happens.

“Text me,” he says, his narrow hand loose on your shoulder. “Even just a single letter, and I’ll assume you need out.”

You squeeze his hand tightly and he slides it away from your grip, resting it gently on top of your head. He always treats you like a little sister, even though you’re the same age by a month. He scratches the back of your head and you bat his hand away, hissing, “Do you _know_ how long it took for me to get that rat’s nest looking right?”

He chuckles and says, “I’ll be at that table right over there.” And with another thumbs up and a sip of his coffee, he leaves you, alone, with an empty chair across from you.

Bright red nails like blood and bright red lips like a scar and thick black eyeliner like a portal for Horus, you wear your makeup like war-paint, casual and perfect and a little bit of something to disconnect you from the rest of the world. You just managed to tame your crazy black curls, pulled back like a circlet.

_You are a queen. You are a warrior._

You are also terrified of what will happen when Dani shows up, and you are terrified of what will happen if she doesn’t.

* * *

 

Only a few minutes pass before you see her through the glass door. She’s wearing jeans a little frayed at the knees and a grey Phoenix FD t-shirt and her hair is a little more tamed than the last time you saw her, but barely. Now that you’re coherent enough and not in unfathomable pain, you notice the half-sleeves on both of her arms; bright colors and sharp lines from the crooks of her elbows to, you assume, her shoulders. Her face is so much more _relaxed_.

Also, you’re not bleeding to death, which is preferable.

Her dark brown eyes dart across the café, and when they land on you, she smiles and offers you a shy half-wave. You smile and wave back.

You stand up to greet her with a handshake as she approaches the table. Her hands are strong, callused, but with small palms and long fingers, like an artist’s, a musician’s. She smiles at you, soft and shy, and her nose and ears are a little pink.

“Has it gotten that much hotter outside already?” you ask as you both sit down.

Her eyes widen a little and she coughs into her hand. “Uh, no, it’s, it’s fine.”

She’s so _different_ , now; soft-spoken, shy, a little nervous.

“You’re just, ah —” she silences herself by resting her chin in her hand and curling her fingers over her lips. Suddenly your chest is tight and your mouth turns down, because… because she seemed so _different_ , and this isn’t —

But then she blurts out, half into her hand, “You’re just really beautiful.” She tucks a flyaway curl back around her ear and it pops back out again, and as her fingers pass her ears, the silver flash of a tiny stud glitters in the light. “I’m… is that inappropriate? If it is just tell me and I won’t say things like that anymore. Sorry.”

You laugh, and the warm metal bands of the rings tight around your fingers clink against your own dangling earring as you also try to push your hair out of your face, as useless as you know it is.

“No,” you murmur. “No, it’s fine. Thank you.” Because you could listen to her say things like that forever.

“If I’d realized you’d look so nice I would have put in a little more effort,” she says, bashfully scratching the back of her neck. Her nails are short, but clean and buffed until they shine like sun glancing off a creek.

“You do look nice,” you say. She smiles bashfully and rubs her nose a little. When she blushes her skin brightens like a sunrise. She has skin like an Egyptian queen: sand-gold, smooth, flawlessly clear.

“Thanks,” she says softly.

You fall into an awkward silence, and for a few minutes -- hours? god, it’s _torture_ , it’s too long -- neither of you says anything.

“Sorry,” Dani finally says. You look up from your nails, tapping on the table. “I’m… I don’t know the last time I’ve actually had a conversation with someone outside of work. I pretty much live at the station, so I don’t have time to meet people.”

You smile. “Well, thank god you do,” you whisper.

She laughs and shakes her head. “So, I mean, clearly you know about my work,” she says, deflecting the compliment. “What do you do?”

Your shoulders curl in a little and your hands tighten around your coffee cup. “I mean… you picked me up past midnight alone on Van Buren?” you murmur. Van Buren is the street of prostitutes, hookers, whores, and _everybody_ knows it. “I thought that made it clear?”

“Eventually you learn not to assume,” Dani says. “It doesn’t matter where they’re from or what they do or how they got there, it’s all the same once you get ‘em in the back of the ambo. Everyone’s equal there.”

Your brows furrow and your mouth turns down, because you don’t understand her reaction. It’s not a condemnation. She’s not excusing you, not that you even _need_ to be. What _is_ this?

“I… don’t understand,” you finally admit.

“I don’t care what you do, as long as you’re not, like, a serial killer or a child abductor or something,” she says. “Basically, I assume you have your reasons. We barely just met; who am I to question them?”

You pull a face of exaggerated concern. “Well, shit, um, I have something _really bad_ to tell you…”

She grins, a small, crooked pull of her mouth that just barely shows her perfect white teeth, and suddenly, all the nerves and stress and worry you had about this meeting, this pretend-not-really-date, it just lifts from your shoulders and back and floats away, forgotten.

“So, Estrella,” she says. “Do you have any questions about the night we picked you up, or was that just an excuse to get me out here?”

You smile, teeth tight on your lip. “A little of column A, a little of column B,” you answer. “But mostly it was a clever ruse,” you grin, because she deserves your honesty. Even if it _was_ her job, she _saved your life_.

She laughs, like bells, like bubbling water. It’s beautiful, and the ground shifts beneath you as you slowly, slowly start to fall.

* * *

 

Everything in the conversation is going so smoothly, so nice and casual and fun, when Dani suddenly drops it.

“You’re remarkably calm in light of what happened last week,” she says softly.

Your fingers are tight on your arm as you unconsciously hug yourself. The opposite hand just barely rubs up and down and you clear your throat.

“Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been attacked,” you admit. “It’s just the first time it’s been that bad.”

Suddenly Dani’s back is rigid and her mouth is tight.

“This isn’t something we should be talking about right now,” you say quickly. “It’s not relevant to anything; the actual reason I asked you out or the clever ruse I used to get you here.”

Her mouth relaxes a little and small half-laugh comes out in a huff from her nose.

She nods and leans back a little, as if you give you more space. “Okay.” She holds up her hands as if to assure you that the topic is dropped. “You barely know me, after all. I understand.”

But her shoulders are still tight, even if her face isn’t anymore.

You have to get the attention off you, quickly, so you say — well, _blurt_ , more accurately — “On the phone you said ‘we have to stick together’ or whatever?” She looks up at you again, her hand hanging halfway up to push her hair back out of her face. “What… _exactly_ did you mean?”

“I mean,” she says, “women are constantly stepped on and pushed over and just generally treated like shit, all the time, everywhere. And if we don’t take care of each other, nobody else is going to.”

You bite your lip and nod. She drops her voice and continues, “And, you know, qu—

” she almost chokes on herself, she stops speaking so fast.

“Are… are you okay with ‘queer’ as an umbrella term or should I use something else?”

“I don’t really have an opinion either way.”

She nods and crosses her arms on the table. Her wrists are thinner than you would expect for such a strong woman, tapering out into wide forearms and even wider upper arms. She’s broad but… also lean, toned, a body type you don’t have a word for. Boyish and boxy, maybe?

“All right,” she says. “Well. We’ve all go to look out for each other too, no matter where on the spectrum we fall.”

You clear your voice and close your eyes, pressing the heel of your hand to your mouth to compose yourself.

“Are you —” she starts.

“Thanks, Dani,” you finally whisper. “Not a lot of people around here feel that way.”

She smiles, small and crooked, and nods her head, and all you want in the world is to curl your fingers around hers and press your palms tightly together.

“That silver and purple ring on your left hand is really nice,” she says. She gestures loosely toward your hand. “Can I see it?”

“Yeah.” You lean forward and stretch your hand across the table, turning it palm up and back again, like some stupid hand-model for a midnight gem program. But then she curls her fingers around yours, loose, gentle, just barely holding, to still your fingers as she glances over them. Your street-style brass knuckles against her clean, work-worn hands.

You raise an eyebrow and clear your throat. “Smooth,” you say.

She laughs. “Not really. Stupid. But thanks for playing along.” She smiles and squeezes your fingers one last time, then loosens them so you can pull away. But you don’t.

You smile and wish you were kissing her, instead.

* * *

 

She doesn’t invite you back to her place, even though you wish she would. Not even to sleep with each other, really. You’re not healed up enough to handle that again yet, or you’d have been back to work by now. Maybe just to watch a dumb movie and have a cup of tea. But even though your not-really-date has clearly turned out to be an actual-definite-date, it doesn’t change how you met and it doesn’t suddenly heal your stomach and she’s obviously too thoughtful to even consider putting you in a place where you could be uncomfortable.

* * *

 

Before you say goodbye, Dani asks you if you have a way home, and since Marshall, wonderful, glorious, perfect Marshall (and he won’t let you forget it), is still at that table even though you’ve been here for over two hours, you say, yes, you’re okay.

“Do you want me to wait here with you until they get here?” she asks.

“No, no,” you say, waving your hand a little too dismissively. You don’t want her to know you had someone hanging back in case things went wrong. “He’s not far. It’ll only be a few minutes after I call him.”

“All right,” she says. Her fingers are still very loosely entwined with yours, even now, and she lifts her your hand and bows her head to just kiss the tip of your first finger, and it’s so delicate and so cute and so sweet you could fucking _swoon_.

“Do you, um,” you start, pause, clear your throat. “Do you want my number?”

She smiles that adorable crooked smile and says, “I’ve got it in my phone from your call yesterday.”

“And you _kept_ it?” you ask. She raises an eyebrow, a look that says, _um, yes_?

“Well, yeah,” she says. “Of course I did.” Something must change on your face, and you can almost feel it, something nervous, something sad, and she says, “I mean, paramedic.” She shrugs. “You have to be ready for anything, right?”

You smile and lean into your hand, and she continues, a little awkwardly, “Do you want me to delete it?”

“No,” you smile. Another loose curl falls out of your tie when you shake your head. “I want you to call me.”


	4. Chapter 4

The days pass, sometimes slowly, sometimes too fast. With each day, walking and stretching and normal movement get easier, and you get closer and closer to going back to work.

Even though your wound was deep enough for two layers of stitches, it was clean, and even though you’re still sore, you’re well _enough_ in about three weeks.

Dani doesn’t call you, but you don’t call her, either.

You glance down at your phone, again, barely two minutes later than the last time, and still, nothing. Your lips tighten and you shove your phone too forcefully into your purse, because you should have expected as much. Because no matter what they say or how they seem, when they sit down to _think_ about it, nobody can _actually_ look past your sex work, and they decide you’re disgusting or dirty or damaged goods.

Everyone, _always_ , and that’s why you don’t do relationships anymore, no matter how cute they are and no matter how kind they appear on the surface.

You sigh and roll your eyes and pull your phone back out to send your nightly text to Marshall:

_On my way out. Text again when home._

 

* * *

 

Your night is made of up men with dirty hands who are shit at sex and quick, sloppy makeup reapplication in hotel room mirrors ( _if_ you’re lucky; most of them take you places that rent by the hour). At one point an undercover cop tries to pick you up, but the others warned you about him, so you first feign indifference and then pull out your phone and threaten to call the police.

He leaves, and less than fifteen minutes later, you’re on another dingy mattress with crumbs in the grooves and stains in the fabric, staring at the wall, faking it like a porn star, and wishing you were playing Candy Crush on your phone instead.

 

* * *

 

Finally, about four a.m., you’re done, you’ve had enough and you’ve made enough, so you make your way back home in a cab that smells like smoke with a driver with a leer that could make you hurl. He calls you ‘baby’ a lot.

You don’t tip him.

He drops the ‘baby’ and calls you a bitch.

 

* * *

 

You always have them drop you off around the corner and just down the street and wait until they leave, just in case. And when you get home, you drop your purse beside the door, pull your hair down, and text Marshall again:

_Home_.

He’s asleep because he has school, but if he wakes up and you haven’t contacted him, he’ll assume the worst. Again. Like you told him to.

You’re too tired to draw a bath like you usually would, so instead you crawl into the shower, scrubbing yourself down like you’ve been in contact with some kind of radiation, washing the war paint off your face and the invisible handprints off your body. It takes some time, longer than it has in the past, because you’ve taken so much time off. But you’ll get used to it again.

 

* * *

 

You crash into bed, wrapped in a towel, and fall asleep before you can even think about finding your pajamas.

When you wake up your hair is in _chaos_ , the worst it’s been in years. You can’t run your fingers through for half an inch before hitting a knot, and you sigh, and for some stupid reason your eyes water and you grit your teeth before taking a deep breath and grabbing your hairbrush from your bedside table. It’s your fault, after all. You fell asleep without brushing or drying it.

The towel sits loosely around your waist, draped over your lap, chest bare. But who cares? There’s nobody here to see it. Every now and then you take a break from brushing and gently cup one of your breasts in your hand. They’re still small, but the estrogen is definitely doing its job. The fewer surgeries you have to get, the better, and hopefully the hormones will just take care of this part on their own. They hurt so much in the beginning, and you’d really rather not go through that kind of pain again. Especially since a surgery would be so much worse.

Sometimes you just find yourself holding them without remembering moving your hands in the first place, but it’s comforting, in a way. It’s something purely positive in a life full of uncertainties and negatives. You’re getting there.

Sometimes you wonder if cis women do that, just randomly poke at their chests. You wish you had someone to ask about these kinds of things.

You sigh and go back to your hair, brush in one hand, as you grab your phone with the other. Missed call and a voicemail. You dial and punch in your password with your thumb.

It doesn’t start immediately, just a rustling for a few moments, and you’re about to hang up because they obviously butt-dialed you, but then Dani’s soft voice says,

“Hey, Estrella. I know you told me to call you, and I’ve meant to, and I know it’s been, like, over two weeks, and that’s unacceptable. It should have been maybe within twenty-four hours. And I’m sorry. The _reason_ is that my dog got sick and I needed to pick up as many extra shifts as I could to pay for his treatment, but it’s not an _excuse_ , and I know I should have and probably could have found at least five minutes to text you or something. And… and I’m sorry. I really want to see you again, if you’re not pissed at me, even though you have every right to be. So, uh. Hopefully I hear from you soon, but if not, I understand. Sorry. Again. Um. Bye.”

You press seven to delete the message and almost throw your phone over your shoulder, but you pause. You should be angry. You _are_ angry. Dani is right; letting that amount of time pass without any contact _is_ unacceptable.

But, then, you didn’t call or text either, and you could have, easily. What were _you_ doing, sitting around organizing your mail and watching stupid animal videos on youtube? She has a sick dog and a hardcore job.

And _oh_ , you _do_ want to see her again, so, _so_ much. The way you felt when you went out all that time ago was… it was _special_. She was clearly interested and she treated you like a _human being_ , and she was so _respectful_ , and…

And you scroll through your contacts to her number and press ‘dial,’ and you wait, and you hope.

She doesn’t answer, so you leave a message.

“Hi, Dani. This is, um, this is Estrella. I want to see you again, too, and, you know, even though you said you would call me I probably could have called you, too, so it’s not _only_ your fault. It’s both of us. And… and I really loved spending time with you, and I think we should try again. When you’re free, send me a text, and I’ll call you back. I think that’s best until we figure out each other’s schedules.”

You’re about to hang up when you add, “And I hope your dog is doing okay and gets well soon. Um. Bye.”

You’re not expecting to hear from her for a while. She said usually she’s twenty-four hours on, forty-eight off, but if she’s picking up extra shifts, she could be anywhere right now; at the station, on a call, asleep. But hopefully this time she does call or text you back, eventually. Soon. Because no matter how nice she was, you will _not_ date someone who doesn’t give you the courtesy of regular communication. Not even casually.

She surprises you like hell when she calls back less than ten minutes later.

“Hello?” you answer, even though you know it’s her.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is soft and a little scratchy and husky and if you were standing, it would make your knees a little weak. _Wow_ , it’s sexy. “I, uh, I know you said to text you, but I figure that it hadn’t been too long so calling was okay? I hope?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, and your voice catches a little. You clear your throat away from the receiver and take a moment to compose yourself before bringing it back to your mouth.

“I just woke up, sorry,” she says. “I might be a little stupid for a few minutes. But I didn’t want to leave you hanging this time. I’m really sorry, Estrella.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “I mean, about being a little stupid. But, Dani, two weeks? Two and a half! _Really_?”

“I know,” she groans. But when you laugh a little and she speaks again, you can hear the smile in her voice. “I know,” she repeats.

“It’s my fault, too,” you say. “I mean, I’ve had your number all this time, too. So, I’m also sorry.”

“So, how _are_ you?” she asks. “How’s your stomach? How’s your life?”

“I’m still a little sore, but I’m pretty much fully functional again. And my life, uh…” What do you say? ‘I went back to work yesterday’? You haven’t even _attempted_ to date in over a year, and you don’t really remember what you’re supposed to do.

“My life’s back to normal,” you finally say.

“That’s good,” she says. “Normal enough for me to take you out on a real date without a ‘clever ruse’?”

You laugh brightly and your hand shoots to your mouth in disbelief. You aren’t really sure what you were expecting and you don’t know why — she wouldn’t have called you if she weren’t interested, after all — but when you say, “Yes!” you blurt it out a little too quickly. But Dani just laughs, and you laugh too and say, “When? I… I make my own hours, so we can schedule around you.”

“All right.” There’s a pause, and you’re expecting her to suggest a time when she speaks again, but instead she says, “You don’t have to use euphemisms if you don’t want to, Estrella. I mean, you can, if you prefer. But it doesn’t bother me. I don’t have any less respect for you than I would anyone else.” Another pause. “If my opinion even matters.”

The subject change is quick and you don’t even try to be subtle. “How’s your dog?”

She doesn’t push it. “Doing better. He caught kennel cough somehow. Probably from the dog park, I guess. But they had to take a bunch of blood and cultures and they had to keep him for a few days, and they had to keep him _isolated_ while he was there, which cost even _more_. But he’s okay now, and I’m caught up, and that’s all that matters. He has to stay away from other dogs for a while because he’s still potentially carrying it, but other than that, he’s okay. Sometimes I’ll bring some of the guys over from the station to play since he can’t go out. He _loves_ it.” She pauses and begins again. “So, for now at least, my schedule’s back to normal.”

It almost _hurts_ , how wide your smile is. There are so few people who care about their animals like that.

“What kind of dog is he?” you ask.

“Therapy dog.” The way Dani says it is so straightforward that you almost aren’t surprised.

“Therapy… dog?” you ask.

“Oh, um.” Suddenly her voice is a little softer and sort of muffled, like she has her hand near her mouth. “I was in the Air Force. Ten years.”

She doesn’t elaborate and you don’t need to ask her to. It could mean any of a million different things, but now is not the time or place for that conversation. She’s half-asleep and you’re sitting on your bed with half a head of tangles wearing nothing but a towel.

“He’s a German Shepherd. That’s probably what you meant.”

“Yeah.”

“How about dinner? Or lunch?”

“What?”

“Or we could go out for brunch, even, if you know a place,” Dani says.

_Oh_ , you’re talking about your date again.

“Yeah!” you grin. “There’s a really cute lunchy place not _too_ far from where I am. Maybe a ten minute drive?” You pause. “Where are you? Is that inconvenient?”

“You said you live by that coffee shop we were at, right?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’m… maybe a half hour from you? But that should be fine. I’m off tonight. Back at work tomorrow night, so I’m going to need to sleep most of the day. If there’s downtime I can usually catch a nap but I can’t always rely on it.”

A quick glance over at your alarm clock tells you it’s just past noon. You don’t have to be back home to get ready until nine at the _latest_. _Plenty_ of time.

“Lunch is best for me.” You leave it open, afraid that suggesting _right now!_ would be too pushy. “Today or tomorrow. I just have to be home around nine.”

“I can pick you up and drive you back, if that makes it easier?”

“ _Yes_ ,” you say, a little too enthusiastically. “That would help a lot.”

“So,” she says, “Tomorrow, maybe, early-on?” She lets the question hang in the air for only a half second before she says, a little hesitantly, “Or… today?”

“I could, um, yeah, I could do today,” you grin. You bounce a little on your bed, still damp from your towel and your crazy, unbrushed hair. Your heart glimmers brighter than a full moon and you grin like a little girl about to ride the carousel for the first time (which was a really big deal for you back then, okay). “You have a smartphone, I assume?”

“The GPS alone is worth the monthly bill,” Dani laughs. “Yeah, I do.”

“I can email you a list of a few places that are all okay with me and then you can pick the one you like best. That okay?” you ask.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll text you my email address.”

“Okay.” You’re practically _dancing_ in place now, and you have to keep your voice steady from all the bouncing and wiggling when you say, “I’ll have you a list in about five minutes.”

“Sounds good,” Dani says.

A pause. This one is not so awkward as the ones before it, although it’s still not exactly comfortable, either.

“Okay,” you say, a little too quickly, with a laugh that’s a little too breathless.

“All right,” she says.

 

* * *

 

You end up deciding on the little café across town and she says she’ll be by to pick you up in a few hours.

_How many is that, exactly?_ you text.

_How many do you want it to be?_

The corner of your mouth turns up in what has to be a smirk. So _this_ is how it’s going to be? _Well_ then.

_Make it an hour?_ you text back, adding a question mark to leave it open, in case for some reason she can’t.

_Done_.

Your smirk stretches into a grin. Oh, you _like_ this.

You breathe a kiss against the screen of your phone, then drop it on the bed so you can finish taking care of your hair and get ready.


	5. Chapter 5

When Dani pulls into the parking lot, she calls, like you asked her to. Very few people actually know exactly where you live, and you want to keep it that way. In the future, if this goes anywhere, of course you’ll have her in at some point. But not now. It’s still too new. You slip your purse over your shoulder and slide your flats on in a string of fluid movements, then grab your keys and head out the door.

With your flats, you can bounce down the stairs two at a time, like you prefer to, but after three pairs you have to switch back to one at a time. Fuck, you’d nearly forgotten about your stomach.

The fact that it doesn’t even register as the remnants of a stab wound from a transphobic asshole in the middle of the night should scare you, you think, or at least make you nervous. But that’s just your life. It’s not the first time you’ve been attacked and it won’t be the last. From now on, you’ll just be more careful and pay closer attention.

And carry a switchblade and some mace.

* * *

 

It took ages to decide what you were going to wear, because this is totally different from anything you’ve done in a very long time. Eventually you decided on a red sundress (red _is_ your color, Marshall has always said, and as a painter, he knows his colors) and matching flats, and you took it easy on the jewelry with the exception of your ever-present rings, a simple gold band on each wrist, and some earrings, toned-down a little from what you usually wear.

More is only more at work. You’re going out to a lunch café on a date. Less is probably better.

When you reach the parking lot, you see Dani’s car with the window rolled down and her arm propped up on the edge. She catches sight of you and grins, gesturing you over. It’s not until you get in the car that you realize her face is almost as red as your dress.

“Dani?” you ask.

“Wow,” she says. “Um. God. Uh. Wow, you’re really beautiful. Sorry I’m such shit at this dressing nice thing. I did try harder this time, though, promise!”

You laugh brightly and she grins a little bashfully. Her shirt is a little more form-fitting, now, a black polo that just clings at her slight curves, and her jeans are in much better condition this time.

“You do look nice,” you say softly, and when she shoots you that impish, playful grin and her nose turns a little pink, your breath catches and you stammer over your own tongue when you repeat, “ _Really_ nice.”

The drive consists of playful squabbling over which radio station to choose before you eventually both agree on NPR and then promptly proceed to talk over everything they say. She talks a little bit about her time in the Air Force, but just surface, superficial things: she worked in equipment repair, she stayed in Germany for a while, then Italy, she was a cook in mess halls for a number of years before things got sticky in Operation Iraqi Freedom and they needed any warm and willing body to throw on the front lines, where she worked as a medic.

“Then I came home,” she says. No details. No further explanation. “And ended up at the fire department.”

The silence is heavy, stifling. Her shoulders and wrists are stiff and the only thing you can think of to break the tension is, “Well, I don’t know how you feel about that, but _I’m_ grateful, at least.”

She laughs and shakes her head, but she relaxes again.

“Yeah,” she says. “This definitely wasn’t what I was expecting when I left you my number.” She glances at you just long enough to catch your eye and smiles, and you grin back, so brightly you almost blind _yourself_.

 

* * *

 

When you reach the parking lot and get out of the car, you realize that the buttons on Dani’s polo aren’t done right. You gesture her back behind the car, gently, and she’s about to ask, “What?” when you gesture at your upper chest and whisper,

“Your buttons aren’t done right.”

She glances down and her head shoots up, her face bright pink, and she murmurs, “Goddammit.”

Your laugh is practically a giggle, so light and bubbly, and you carefully redo the three white, pearlescent buttons. Then you straighten her collar, and as your hands loosen, you look up. Her face is dark, dark red, and her throat jumps when she swallows, and your hands hover in place as you ask, “You okay?”

“Yeah.” It bursts out in a quick, heavy breath. You tug on her collar once more to fix any wrinkles, then lean closer and gently, gently kiss her jaw. Her breath catches, and her hands hover at your waist, just barely pressed against the fabric of your sundress. But she doesn’t make full contact.

You leave a smudge of pink lipstick behind on accident, and you smile, but you don’t tell.

She smiles back and mumbles a soft, embarrassed, “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

When you get inside, you don’t join the line right away. You hang back, looking at the handwritten chalkboard menu in bright pinks and greens and blues, the little flowers by the vegan options and the little leaves by the vegetarian ones. Marshall introduced you to this place, because vegan food is so hard to find unless it’s by accident after asking the server to take a few things off the plate, and he practically lived here the final year of studying for his bachelor’s.

_You know how the menu says their vegan shakes will give you superpowers?_ he’d said. _It’s true. It’s totally true. I’m positive that’s how I made it through the year._

You always kind of wished you could be a vegan, but it’s just too expensive, and even full-time vegetarianism sometimes gets to be too much. But it’s nice, every now and then, to be able to eat the kind of food you wish you could have all the time.

“Get whatever you want,” you tell Dani. “I’ll pay.”

“No you won’t,” she says.

You prop your fist on your hip and just barely turn your head toward her. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“I’ve got it,” she says. You drop your chin and narrow your eyes, but she just grins.

“Keep looking at me like that and I’ll get coffee and dessert, too.”

You raise an eyebrow and your mouth pulls up in the corner, even though you try to will it not to. She just raises hers to match it and her crooked grin grows a little bigger.

“Done,” she says, and when she loops a stray curl behind your ear — poorly, because it pops right back in front of your eyes —her rough knuckles brush your cheek and it takes every ounce of self control inside you to keep your face steady. But you manage it.

“I’ll get you later,” you say vaguely. Her eyebrow quirks up a bit more.

“Yeah? How?” she challenges. Her hand still lingers near your cheek, so you take her hand and gently nip at the side of her wrist. Her breath hitches.

Without another word, you just smile and turn back to the menu boards up above the order counter.

You’re not in this area often, but you do know that this restaurant, at least, is safe for public displays of affection, to a point. Marshall has brought all types of dates and boyfriends here, from those who didn’t even want their hands held to those who would literally sit in his lap if he’d give them the chance, and not once has he had a problem with anyone. And nobody has ever bothered you the few times you’ve been here. Although you hate the concept of _needing_ to ‘pass’, you’re lucky enough to pass fairly well and most people assume you’re just a taller than average cis woman.

You smile softly to yourself and glance back over to see Dani’s hands shoved firmly in her pockets. Her nose and ears are bright pink, but she’s smiling, too.

When you finally step up to the counter to order, you try to pay, but Dani’s wallet is in her pocket so she has her credit card out and swiped before you can even get your hand into your bag. You narrow your eyes and purse your lips, but she pretends not to notice, even though, when she glances over, her eyes lock on yours for a split second and you _know_ she has.

“Here’s your number,” the teenager behind the counter says. You finally look back at her. She’s grinning at you. “Sit anywhere. We’ll have someone bring it out when it’s ready.”

“Thank you.” You take the placard and motion for Dani to follow you to one of the little tables for two in the corner.

Dani glances around idly as you take your seats, at the photography and paintings from the local art students on the walls, the stylishly mismatched tables and chairs, the stacks of flyers for local bands and art shows and anything else that’s anything worth going to around here.

“This is a great little place,” she says.

“Marshall introduced me.” Your seats are so close and you’re both so tall that your knees nearly bump, and it’s easy to press your leg up against hers. You feign like it’s an accident, but the raise of her eyebrow says she knows exactly what you’re up to. “He’s a really good friend of mine. One of the first I made after I moved here.” The only that you’ve still kept, but you don’t say that. It’s depressing. Nobody wants to hear you complain about that kind of thing.

“We were wondering about that,” she says. Her legs shift under the table and her calf presses a little closer to yours.

“What?”

“I called him…” She trails off, as if she’s suddenly realized that whatever she’s about to say might not be appropriate. “That… that night,” she finishes. Her eyes are down on the table now. “Since he was your emergency contact. We left before he got there and we were wondering who he was. The doctors assumed a boyfriend or something.”

You laugh and roll your eyes. “Hardly. We’re both gay in the wrong direction.”

Dani’s laugh is so bright and honest and _loud_ that she has to stifle it by pressing her knuckles over her mouth. “Shit,” she murmurs. Her shoulders shake and her eyes are squeezed tight with mirth. “Oh my god, Estrella. That’s probably one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard.”

Your grin fades a little. “What?”

“Just the… the phrasing.” She clears her throat and finally composes herself. “I… it’s perfect, really.”

Your grin brightens again, and you start to lean a little closer when one of the guys from behind the counter approaches and says, “You’re sharing the spring rolls, ladies?”

You lean back and look up with a smile. “Yeah, thanks.”

He slides the plate down in the center of the table. “The rest will be out shortly.”

You don’t attempt to do anything flirty with the food, because how would you even _do_ that with something like spring rolls? But even though you do your best to fluster Dani in other ways — she’s so _cute_ when she’s bright pink and at a loss for words! —she remains mostly unruffled. Occasionally you manage to get her cheeks to flush or her voice to crack, but she never stops smiling and you never manage to completely throw her off.

But you don’t want to, not really. You don’t want to be in charge or to compete. You want to be level. Equal.

Your knuckles brush against hers, now, hands meeting in the middle of the tiny table, and then she slides her hand under yours and curls her fingers into your palm. She pauses, almost hesitantly meeting your eyes, and you smile and your heart flutters like a thousand bluebirds’ wings.

Then she kisses your wrist, the barest brush of lips just below the heel of your hand, and suddenly you’re a little lightheaded and very glad you’re sitting down.

But the server comes back and trades the empty plate for your meals, and her hand leaves yours. Suddenly you think, _what if you just throw the table out of the way and leap on her and kiss her stupid_?

But you like this place and don’t want to get kicked out, so you crack your chopsticks in half and take a bite of your curried tofu instead.

Things lull for a few minutes as you make small talk about the food, and how you like this part and would definitely order that one again. Then, after you swallow the food in your mouth, you ask, “So, we know all the business stuff. What we do, what we’ve done, how long we’ve been there. But, like… what’s your favorite kind of music? What movies do you like? What do you do for fun?”

Dani chuckles around the food in her mouth and puts her sandwich down, holding up one hand as she finishes chewing.

“Okay, um,” she starts. She clears her throat. “In order: mostly alternative and rock stuff from the 60s and 70s, even though I’ll give anything a listen at least once; uh… superhero movies and weird arsty stuff, I guess; and, currently, sleep and take Bucky out to play.”

“Bucky…?”

“That’s my dog’s name.”

You grin. “That’s adorable.”

She grins back and bows her head in a half nod. “Couldn’t have picked a better one myself.”

You both pause, then she says, “But, before work took over my life, I used to crochet. It’s been so long I probably suck at it, now, though. Cooking. I mean, it was a huge part of my life in the military, so. I like comic books but don’t read them as much as I used to. That’s about it, really. I wouldn’t say I’m _boring_ , but most of the interesting things about me are probably work-based.” She idly moves her cup a little to one side, then says, “What about you, though? I’ve noticed you tend to… deflect the conversation over to me most of the time.”

Your shoulders tighten and she looks up, but there’s no malice of any kind on her face. Her dark brown eyes are soft. “I want to know about you, too.”

The sentence is so soft, so gentle, so _honest_.

So even though you’re still afraid to say too much, you open your mouth and start to tell her about yourself, too. Nothing deep or scary. Surface things. You never finished high school but were in college on a GED for a while before you had to drop out because of a lack of funds, but you weren’t doing anything in particular so it was mostly a waste anyway. Your friend Jenn taught you how to sew back when you still _were_ friends, but you’re still kind of sloppy because you don’t do it often. You only have one friend, but it’s not sad, and at least he’s not straight. Not on _purpose_ , it just happened that way.

She bursts out laughing, then, and says idly, “Must be nice.”

You hike an eyebrow.

“No stupid questions,” she elaborates. “No stupid jokes that weren’t meant to be offensive but still are, anyway. I can see how that would happen. Easily.”

You smile and take another bite of your lunch.

* * *

 

“So,” Dani says, “are there any good bakeries around here?”

You stand side by side, shoulders pressed close together, as you lean back against the side of her car. Your hands are curled around your handbag in front of you and her left arm is splayed out behind you. You lean back against her, soft skin and taut muscle against your bared shoulders.

“I don’t know about here, exactly. But there’s a cupcake shop another ten minutes or so down the road.”

“I hate how spread out everything is here,” she sighs. You glance up at her to see the smudge of lipstick still on her jaw, and while you try to stifle it, a little bit of a giggle still bubbles past your lips.

“What?” she asks. She turns to you and you gesture at your own jawline, and she lifts her hand to mimic yours, rubbing at her skin with her thumb. When she pulls it back, it’s stained pink, too.

“Jesus Ch-” He cuts herself off and glances over at you. You at least have the decency to look a little bit embarrassed, even though it’s funny over anything else. But then she pulls the shoulder of her shirt up to wipe it off and it pulls the hem up with it to show her lower stomach — soft, a little curved, the same sand-gold as the rest of her with just the barest hint of muscle definition under the skin and oh god you could just _eat her up_.

She drops her shirt and uses her knuckle to test for any lingering lipstick —she’s clean —and she turns to you, about to say something, but your face is so warm and your breathing is just a tiny bit too quick and she notices, because whatever she was going to say comes out as, “Do you want to go back to my place for a while? For some coffee or whatever?”

Your hands spasm on your purse. Something changes. Suddenly your hands are clammy and your quick breathing is almost scared and even though you keep your face steady, you can _feel_ your eyes change, and she sees it, too.

“No strings,” she says, hands up, open, like she’s trying to prove she’s unarmed. “I take you home whenever you want, no questions.” She pauses, and when you don’t answer, she says, “Or we can just go back to the café by your place, if you’d prefer. Whichever.”

You close your eyes, push everything down, swallow. You push your hair back.

You open your eyes again and say, “What do you want, Dani?” You barely manage to keep your voice steady.

“W… what?” she asks. Her confusion is legitimate, and your shoulders can start to relax again. “I just… I just want to spend some more time with you? And, like… you…” Her hand is on the back of her neck now, nervous, awkward, and it’s clear that if there weren’t a car behind her she’d be stepping backward. “Back in the restaurant? I mean… we were… I thought…” She stops again and covers her mouth with her hands, breathing in deep through her nose. “Fuck, I’m so bad at this, I’m so sorry. I’m always way too blunt but I don’t know how to be tactful and —”

“Just _say_ it, Dani.” Your voice is harsh. She flinches.

“I mean, we were getting really… flirty back there? And I just thought maybe somewhere more private would be better, like… even if it doesn’t end up going anywhere. I thought… I guess I thought you were trying to hint you wanted it to be just us? With nobody else around? Was I totally off base?”

She finally opens her eyes again, soft, nervous, maybe even a little scared, and suddenly you feel like Cruella De Vil threatening to skin a puppy. Goddammit, Estrella, she said on day one that your work didn’t matter, why would she would try to —

“I’m sorry,” you finally say. Your eyes are tight on your shoes, the rounded toes, the little red bows, the black lining. “I’m sorry Dani, I… it’s just, you know, in the past… and…”

But she knows what you’re trying to say, or at least, she thinks she does and you think she’s right, because she says, “No, no, nothing like that, Estrella. Never.” She unsurely puts her warm hands on your upper arms, you let yourself fall forward, dropping your face right in the crook of her shoulder.

For a few moments, you just stand there, your face in her shirt and her hands hovering over your arms. But then, you both relax, and you shift your feet, and you wrap your arms around her torso and she wraps hers around your waist. And the touch is so chaste, so caring, that you feel completely safe saying, “All right. Let’s go back to your place.”


	6. Chapter 6

“You’re not allergic to dogs, are you?”

Dani’s hand pauses near the lock on the door when she asks you the question. “Bucky’s really well behaved. He doesn’t jump or lick or anything. But there _is_ hair on the couch and carpet and stuff.”

You shake your head. “No allergies.”

She grins, nods, and sticks the key in the lock.

“Hey, Bucky!” she calls as you both enter. “I brought a friend for you to meet!”

A large German Shepherd trots calmly from around the corner and up to Dani, sitting down in front of her and bowing his head, pawing at his ear. She crouches down and scratches his head and the back of his neck with both hands, murmuring things you can’t quite catch. When she stands with one last pat, she turns to you and says, “It’s okay if you pet him. He’s not working right now. You won’t distract him.”

You do, although not with much enthusiasm or commitment. You don’t _dislike_ dogs, but the big ones make you nervous, even when they’re well-trained.

You turn back to Dani and she gestures around the living room. Your eyes follow her hand, quickly taking it in. Pathways to other rooms. Doors. Windows.

And, only once you have a potential escape route, everything else. It makes you hate yourself a little, that you’re doing that here, with Dani, but what if you don’t and end up needing one? If something happened it would only be your fault, again. Like everything.

Your head snaps back to her as she says, “Make yourself comfortable. Sit anywhere, or look around at the movies and stuff. Follow me into the kitchen while I start some coffee. Whatever you want.”

“Thank you.”

“Be only a minute.”

She disappears around the corner into the open kitchen. There’s a space where you can see her lower torso, but everything above and below is blocked off by wall on your side, probably storage space on hers. You turn and walk across to the other side of the living room, where the windowed door is, pulling the blinds to the side and peering out. You’re on the ground level. It leads to a little patio-type space, walled in. Two small, wrought iron chairs and a matching table are piled up on one side and in the other corner are a few stacked planting pots, all unused.

The room itself is simple, almost bare. There’s nothing on the walls aside from the shelves and furniture pressed against it. One large bookshelf, a smaller one of video games and DVDs. A TV opposite. A couch in the middle, so small you probably couldn’t stretch across it without at least your feet hanging off. A tiny table in front, on the right side.

That’s it. Is the rest of her apartment so sparse, too? She _did_ say she doesn’t spend much time at home except to sleep.

You leave your purse in the corner by the door and sit on the couch, and you squeak when you start to sink in. It looks like just a shitty futon but with a little readjusting it’s the most comfortable thing you’ve ever laid down on. More comfortable than your own _bed_.

Your shoes hang loosely from your toes, both feet hanging over the couch past your ankles, like you thought they would. But you could still sleep here for ages. When you lift your arm to lean into as a pillow, most of it hangs off the other end, too. You turn your nose into your elbow and sigh, deep and content. It’s already getting on to early afternoon, and usually you’d be asleep by now…

“Do you want me to take you home?”

You jump a little at Dani’s unexpected voice, turning toward her and righting the strap that’s fallen halfway down your shoulder, fixing your neckline as you sit back up again.

“No, no,” you say. You clear your throat. “Your couch is _very_ comfortable,” you say, a little stupidly.

“You sure?” she asks. She hands you a cup of coffee and drags the little table toward the middle of the couch. “No trouble. You don’t have to stay.”

She sits down next to you and puts her coffee down.

 “I want to stay,” you murmur, curling up next to her like a cat in a sunbeam.

* * *

 

It takes some time — mostly because you’re being distracting, if you’re honest — but eventually you decide on a film adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing. Once it’s going, Dani sits back beside you again. The dialogue starts.

“Subtitles?” you ask. You look up at her from your half of the couch, where your knees are tucked up and you lean against her shoulder. She turns slightly and gestures at her ears.

“Yeah. The gunfire fucked my hearing up really bad.”

“What —”

She clears her throat.

“Oh. _Oh_! Oh, I’m sorry.”

 “Don’t be. It’s a reasonable question.”

But even so, she seems uncomfortable, so you drop it and turn back to the movie.

As the time passes, every now and then you idly glance over at her, and sometimes she glances over at you, too, and sometimes you glance at each other at the same time and accidentally lock eyes before you smile shyly and look back at the TV again. But those times are the best times, because you always end up moving _just_ a little closer after that.

Eventually you wiggle up against her side, pressed in tight, but even though she doesn’t push you away or ask you to stop, she keeps her hands firmly and politely in her lap. The fingers of her left hand idly scratch at her right wrist, and just as you turn back to the TV again, Bucky whines, just loudly enough to be heard, and you turn back to see him nudging his nose between her hands and licking her palms. She blinks rapidly a few times and nearly shakes her head, then looks down and smiles and scratches him behind the ears.

“Thanks, boy,” she murmurs.

“Dani?” you ask softly. Nervously.

She turns toward you and you pull away, just slightly. Her brow furrows, hurt.

“What’s —”

“Nothing, nothing,” she says. But it’s not reassuring like it’s supposed to be.

“I don’t think so,” you murmur. “You may not want to talk about it, but it’s not nothing.”

She glances down at her hands, her left curled tightly, protectively around her right wrist. “No, it’s just…” She sighs heavily and looks away.

“So, most of my time in the Air Force was fine, right? But that last year and a half, it… it fucked me up. I wasn’t supposed to be in the thick of it. I was supposed to be in the back, fixing shit and translating. And I… it just… it messed me up, Estrella. And sometimes I just kind of forget where I am and what’s happening around me and I just need to be pulled back in, that’s all. I —”

“Do you have PTSD?”

She flinches. Both of you are still, silent, and when she finally looks at you, she murmurs, “ _What_?”

You just smile softly, sadly, and lift your eyebrows a little, as if to say, _I’ve been there. I understand._

Her brows furrow. “You —”

“It’s not easy to be in my line of work without acquiring it somewhere.”

Her lips part slightly and her face tightens. Her eyes are wide, afraid.

“Do you get nightmares, too?” she asks. Her voice is tight, a little wet, desperate for someone who understands, like _you’ve_ been for so long.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “A lot.”

Her smile is tentative but genuine. You smile back.

Nothing more needs to be said for now, and you turn back to the TV. But this time, she wraps her arm around your shoulders and leans closer into you, too.

 

* * *

 

All you must have needed was that one _big thing_ to knock down your remaining inhibitions, because not long after that brief conversation, suddenly Dani is actively flirting back rather than just smiling and going along with you. She brushes her callused fingers across your shoulders, whispers random trivia about the movie so close and so soft and so hot in your ear that you don’t even know what she’s saying, and somewhere along the line she half pulls you and you half crawl into her lap. At first you just sit like that, with your head tucked into her shoulder and her arms around your waist. Then she whispers something into your hair that you don’t quite catch. She’s bright pink when you pull back to ask her to repeat herself.

“Estrella, can I kiss you?”

“Oh god, _yes_.”

You curl your fingers tight in her collar and pull her into you even as she leans closer. It’s clear she’s wanted to kiss you just as long as you’ve wanted to kiss her, because there’s no shyness, there’s no subtlety, there’s just your hands tight in her hair and hers on your waist and lips on lips and jawlines and necks. She kisses you like you’re simultaneously precious and wild and you kiss back like you’re drowning and she’s your only source of oxygen. She kisses your jaw again and this time, nips at it, too, and your hand tightens in her hair. She trembles and her mouth falls slack. Her breath hitches.

You open your eyes. “Are you —”

“Pull,” she whispers. “Please.”

Her words are so urgent that you do so without question, a quick, firm jerk in her soft hair, your knuckles tight against her scalp. She moans, low and hot.

“ _Oh_ ,” you whisper breathlessly.

She shudders and you pull again, and this time she moans even louder and her mouth falls open.

You shift and move and slide against each other, your fingers tentatively sliding just beneath her shirt, hers burning through the thin fabric of your dress where they slide everywhere from your waist to your back, and then, you’re on your back and she’s on top of you and her shirt is on the floor in a rumpled pile and you think, _your dress should be down there with it_. Your hands slide and scramble everywhere, from her lower back to her stomach to her neck. Her skin is _beautiful_ , not just the color, but the softness, the heat, and the strength of the muscle hidden underneath that you can only see with touch. For the first time you can really see her tattoos, clockwork and flora, steel and flowers, heavy on the coppers and silvers but with small bursts of the bright colors of lilies and orchids and roses scattered throughout. You could spend hours tracing all the delicate detail, with your fingertip, with your tongue.

Dani shifts again and you prop yourself up on one elbow, sliding her bra strap to the side —simple, functional, a basic brown with no adornments —so you can bury your face in her shoulder and _breathe_. She doesn’t smell like anything in particular, just clean. Clean skin and honesty. Her hand slips down to the small of your back to support you as she kneels over you, and when you lift your own to curl back into her hair, you get tangled in the straps of your dress, so you slide your arms out and let the top fall where it will.

It goes on for ages, the kissing and touching and nothing else, and you want to keep going, to move further, but you _don’t_ , because you haven’t felt like this in so long, in _years_ , and what if sex _ruins_ it?

Splayed over the small couch like this, with Dani’s elbows curled in next to you and her mouth soft on your bared neck, the flat on your left foot dangling just off the toes and the top of your dress pooled around your waist and the bottom rucked up at your thigh — you feel like a pinup girl, a beautiful, sexy, desirable _woman_ , for once not the fetish object so many people treat you as. Dani’s hand curls in your hair as she shifts her weight to her right arm, so gentle, as she kisses down your neck, down, over your collarbone and to just the top of your left breast. She hesitates, breathing against you, her mouth _almost_ touching but not _quite_ , and you curl your hands in her hair and whisper, a little hoarsely, “Keep going. Please.”

Because if you want her to, she’ll stop. It’s okay. She will.

Her fingers trace the curve just underneath your bra and you shiver, your breath hitches, because oh, you knew the right touch would make them feel so good but you never really hoped to find someone who would respect you enough to —

“Take it off.” You don’t mean to sound so demanding, but it’s so _urgent_ suddenly, and —

Dani looks up into your face. Her pupils are wide and black and almost hide the golden brown of her iris, and her face is flushed all the way down to her shoulders.

“You sure?” she asks.

“If you don’t take my bra off, Dani Cohen, I will.”

She laughs and crawls up your body, propping herself back over you. You wrap your arms around her shoulders, your leg around hers at the knee.

“That’s not much of a threat,” she grins.

You grin back. “Not s’posed to be.”

“You’re slurring,” she says. She presses her forehead against yours. Her skin _burns_.

She kisses you, slowly and gently, like you’re the most special thing in the world, and it could almost make you cry.

And when she gently runs her knuckles along your jawline and whispers into your ear, “You’re beautiful, Estrella,” … you do.

 

* * *

 

Everything stops, and about ten minutes later, you’re both fully clothed again and Dani has wrapped a throw around your shoulders and made and brought in new coffee, even with little pots of sugar and cream this time. You’re on the floor, crosslegged, a little too far apart for you to like it. Bucky sits beside Dani, quiet and waiting until he’s needed, if he’s needed at all. Dani’s hand is tight in his scruff, for her comfort rather than his control, you know.

“I’m sor—” you finally choke.

“Don’t,” she interrupts. “Don’t ever apologize for wanting to stop. Okay?”

You finally look up at her when she gently brushes your hair away from your eyes. It’s a little — a lot — wild now, and your makeup is a bit smudged, but Dani still doesn’t look at you any differently than she did when she first picked you up earlier this afternoon.

Both of you are silent for a while. The DVD has stopped and there isn’t even any music on the menu screen.

“I mean, we just met each other, for all practical reasons,” she continues. “This is only our second date. Unless you count the ER, but that would be pretty weird.”

You finally laugh, and your shoulders loosen a little. “I don’t.”

Another long, long pause. “What was it?” she asks softly.

You look up from the coffee mug balanced on your knee. “What?”

“I mean, what did I do? Or say? I want to know so I don’t do it again.”

Your throat tightens, sharp, prickly. You place your mug back on the table and wring your hands together, then rub at your face. Even when you stop moving, you don’t take them away.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I won’t be mad.”

You shake your head, trying to stall for time to get yourself under control, because you’re not going to cry _again_.

“Estrella —”

You breathe in deep but a little too quickly, and mutter from behind your hands, “It wasn’t you, Dani. I promise.”

“What?”

You finally lower your hands. Her brow is furrowed and her eyes are darting from yours to your covered mouth.

All this time she’s been using the movements of your mouth to put together what you’re saying. Just like she needed the subtitles, she needs your visual cues. So you curl your fingers into your palms, and even though your hands shake when you lower them to your lap, you manage to keep your voice steady.

“It wasn’t you,” you repeat. “I mean… not how you’re thinking. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You take in another shaky breath and your eyes start to water, hot and sharp. “You’re just… you’re _too_ good. And I’m not used to being treated that way. Not… not outside of friendships, and I only even have one of those. You’re just, you’re so kind, and considerate, and —” And you have to stop, because your voice is breaking now and if you keep going, you’ll start sobbing again.

She gently rests her hand on your knee and says, “I’m… not that good, really. If it makes you feel any better, I once threw a kitten down a flight of stairs.”

You sniffle. “No you didn’t.”

Her smile is crooked and tentative. “Yeah, no I didn’t.”

You sniffle again, but this time a wet laugh bubbles out, too. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Yeah,” she chuckles.

You finally meet her eyes again and murmur, “But that’s a good thing.”

Her smile grows a little wider. When she kisses your forehead, her lips are so soft and so warm. Your eyes slip closed, and you breathe.

* * *

 

A half hour or so later, Dani takes you home. The ride is quiet, but not silent — occasionally one of you will make some kind of dumb comment about something on the radio or outside on the sidewalk —and when you get to the parking lot of your apartment complex, you don’t leave the car immediately. She doesn’t try to push you.

“Can I see you again?” she finally whispers. You turn to her. She’s leaning loosely on the steering wheel, her cheek resting awkwardly on the back of her arm. “I know things got kind of…”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Near the end there. But… can we try again? I really like you, Estrella, so much, and —”

“Yeah,” you say again. “I just… I just need a day or two. To get my head back together. Okay?”

Dani’s mouth tightens and her eyes turn down. She nods and looks away. Oh, _no_ , does she think you’re blowing her off?

You lean closer, over the center console, and it’s awkward but with a little prodding you finally get her to look at you again. Her dark eyes are a little glassy and she doesn’t quite make eye contact, either looking at your chin or your eyebrows.

“Dani, I’m not bullshitting you,” you say gently. “I really do want to see you again. And we can text and call and email or whatever, if you want. I just… I need a day or two to myself. My head did some messed up things to me and I need to understand them before I try to do anything like that with you again. Okay?”

She closes her eyes for a little longer than a blink, but when she opens them again, they’re clear.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I totally understand. Sorry. I thought…” She lowers her head, shrugs her shoulder, looks back up at you again and finishes, “I guess I thought you were just trying to let me down easy. Keep it from getting messy.”

“No,” you murmur. You shake your head, kiss her jaw, the corner of her mouth, her nose. She laughs. “I mean it. I do want to see you again. I just need to figure out what the hell happened so… so maybe it doesn’t happen again. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” she repeats. She curls her hand gently over the back of your neck. She kisses your temple and lingers there for a short while, then murmurs, “Text me first, if you want to talk. I have an auto-respond for when I’m on calls, but I’ll get it, and I’ll call you when I’m free again, okay?”

“Okay.”

You tilt your head slightly and kiss her. Her fingers tighten and you sigh into her mouth, and you think, _you don’t know how the hell you got lucky enough to find this woman._


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as you get inside, you call Marshall. Thankfully, he answers.

“Hey Estrella! What’s up?”

“Can you come over? I need to talk to someone and I might cry so I’ll probably need a hug at some point and —”

“ _Whoa_ ,” Marshall says firmly. “One thing at a time. Yeah, I can come over. I’m actually just leaving school now, so I’m pretty close. You grabbed me at just the right time.”

“Oh thank god.” It all comes out in one long word, a quick, relieved breath.

“Why might you cry?” His voice is a little harsh, now. “Is it that Dani person? Did she finally call you back? I’m not afraid to punch her just because she’s a woman.”

“Yes and yes,” you answer, “and no, don’t, that’s not… she didn’t do anything bad.” You swallow and sit down, kicking off your shoes underneath the tiny kitchen table. “Please just come over. I can’t do this on the phone.”

“Okay,” he says. “Give me a few minutes. The campus is just a few blocks away, so I won’t be long.”

 

* * *

 

Marshall is barely half an inch shorter than you, but you still feel so much smaller when you collapse against him. Not in a hug, exactly. You just sort of plop against him and continue to stand there. He grunts softly and rests his arms on your shoulders, trying to steady you, so you right yourself and lead him over to the couch. You curl into yourself, pulling your foot up against the opposite thigh, and he sits cross-legged across from you, leaning forward, his hands on your knees.

“What the hell _happened_?” he finally asks. But his voice is gentle, even if his face is a little angry. “So I take it Dani finally called you but… what the fuck did she _do_?”

“She’s perfect.” Your voice is so tiny, too tiny for your tall, grown-up body. “She’s perfect, and it’s not fair, and… and I _hate_ it.” You squeeze your eyes closed, and when you look up at Marshall again, you say, “Except I don’t. I love it and I hate myself for loving it. I think.”

He sits up a little straighter and crosses his arms. He blows a stray curl out of his eyes and it falls right back in. “Estrella,” he says gently. “You’re not making sense.”

“I know,” you murmur.

“Okay,” he says. “At least we know that much, yeah?”

He cracks a smile and you smile weakly back.

“Just… start somewhere,” he says gently. “Start where it starts. Or not! I have all afternoon. We’ll get around to it.”

You start in the middle, at your date, and work your way backwards to when she called you this morning, and then jump forward to her place and her couch and her hands and her lips and, _oh_ —

The way Marshall averts his eyes and clears his throat makes it clear he’s a little uncomfortable delving _that_ deeply into your day. To be fair, you’d probably feel the same way if he went into that much detail with one of his guys. So you bring yourself back and don’t talk details anymore.

“And… and I started crying,” you finally admit.

His eyes go wide. “While —”

“Yeah,” you choke.

He flinches and his hands shoot to his mouth.

“Yeah.”

“Did she… what did she _do_?”

“She called me beautiful. And… and she _meant_ it, and I’d never felt as beautiful in my life as I did then. And I cried.”

“And you cried?” he repeats softly.

You nod and look down at your knee.

“Oh my God.” It’s half gasp, half groan.

You lean back and yell at the ceiling, “I know!”

“Then what happened?”

“We stopped, and we had coffee, and we talked a little and she brought me home. And she said she wanted to see me again.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The single word is a half-laugh, half-sob, and you have to cover your mouth to compose yourself.

“Damn,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “She’s a fucking keeper.” He pauses. “Please tell me you’re going to see her again.”

You sob again, although quietly, and you nod so meaningfully you can hear the jingle of your earrings. “ _Yes_ ,” you finally manage. “I want to see her again so much.” You clear your throat and dab at the bottoms of your eyes with the back of your finger, and thankfully when you bring it back, it’s clean. “Fuck, I can’t believe this. I’m in my mid-twenties and I’m pretty sure she’s at least a few years older and she makes me feel like a stupid teenager.” You laugh a little wetly.

“Well,” Marshall says, but then she stops. You look back at him again. His face is softer than usual. You’re expecting a stupid joke, but he surprises you when he says, “You never really had the _chance_ to be a stupid teenager, though, did you?”

In that question is _years_ of knowledge: _you left school before you finished puberty; you started working before you were even old enough to get most **legal** jobs; so few of **any** of your relationships have ever worked, romantic or no._

But even though both of you think it, neither says so out loud. You just nod and say, “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

You never had _time_ to have a crush or fall in love. You still don’t, really. But it looks like the universe doesn’t care this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I'm going to be out of town next week, so there won't be any updates until the week after. On Tuesday the 20th they'll resume as normal. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I'm back from my trip so updates will now continue as normal!

That night is _almost_ like any other. It’s full of the same shitty by-the-hour motels and the same shitty catcalling drivebys and the same shitty boredom. It’s all the same man with a blur of different faces that don’t matter. Guys barely out of boyhood who want to lose their virginity like it’s some kind of burden, middle-aged men cheating on their wives, closeted gay men who treat you like a man in a dress. One of them, in his mid-thirties, says he just wants to talk to you, and you almost start to get your hopes up when he changes his mind and decides ‘he should get what he paid for, too’. He pulls a few crumpled up bills out of his pocket and you smooth them out on the side of the desk as you count them.

“This barely gets you a blowjob,” you say.

“ _What_?”

“This shit isn’t name your own price, boy,” you say. “You pay me for my time, too, and I’ve been wasting it talking shit here with you.”

It’s not you. It’s _never_ been you, but if you look weak for even a moment, they’ll tear you apart like hyenas on a sick gazelle.

“Fine.” He stands and starts to unbuckle his belt, and even though the ‘fucking bitch’ is barely a murmur, you still hear it.

This night is _almost_ like any other. Except this time, it hurts.

 

* * *

 

You’re almost too tired to bathe when you get home. But you can’t just go to bed like this; you’re a fucking mess, covered in who knows what (you don’t want to). You send your regular morning text to Marshall. It’s almost four a.m., and he texts back this time:

_You okay?_

You reply: _As ever._

You leave your phone on the bathroom counter and take a quick shower before switching everything over to a bath. For a while, you just stand there as the hot water slowly rises around your ankles, up your calves. The comforting heat relaxes your muscles a little too much and you can barely keep your eyes open as your hands fumble through your bath things. Eventually you reach into the small plastic container all the way at the back of the shelf and pull out one of the bath bombs Marshall got you for Christmas last year. You don’t use them often, but you really, really need it right now.

The little ball fizzes bright and loud and it wakes you up a little, and soon your bath is pink and yellow and full of glitter and smells like vanilla cake, and you sink into it, all the way down to the bottom of your chin. With a deep, heavy sigh, you close your eyes and do your best forget the night.

 

* * *

 

The water is cold when you open your eyes again. One of your arms hangs loosely over the side of the tub and you lift your cheek from it as you blink rapidly, looking around and trying to find the source of… _whatever_ that sound is. After a moment, you realize, it’s your phone.

You pull yourself out of the bath, still covered in glitter and pink and yellow foam, and pull a towel around yourself as you stumble over to grab your phone.

“H’lo?” You clear your throat. “Sorry. Hello?”

“May I please speak to Estrella?”

She pronounces it ‘ee-strell-a’ rather than ‘es-tray-yah’. You correct her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sir.” She doesn’t try to pronounce it again. “May I speak with her?”

“Speaking. And it’s ‘Miss.’” Your voice isn’t _that_ deep, not really, and with all the training you’ve done, at _worst_ , it’s androgynous. But for some reason, people can never get it right on the phone.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” she says. You yawn and lean back against the counter, grabbing another towel to start drying down your hair.

“I’m calling about your recent stay at Our Samaritan Hospital?”

_Oh, shit._ But it’s just an internal grumbling, and what you actually say is, “Yes?”

“Well, we haven’t gotten response to any of the bills we’ve sent you and we were hoping to work something out so we don’t have to send it to collections.”

“Well, I don’t have insurance and I’m unemployed, so… so I don’t know what you want me to say.” You scratch your chin and turn back to look in the mirror. You squint at yourself and the dark circles under your eyes, but of all of your physical issues, at least you don’t have to worry about shaving anymore. The electrolysis was expensive considering how much you needed, but it was some of the best money you ever spent.

“Maybe we can work out a payment plan?” the woman on the phone asks.

“I mean… I can maybe send you ten or fifteen a month?” you say. “I know that’s nothing considering how much I owe, but right now that’s the best I can do.”

“On each bill?” she asks.

You stop poking at your face. “How many are there?”

“Well, there’s the ER, the surgery, the doctor’s bills for both, the —”

“Okay,” you interrupt, because you know that’s not going to be possible. “What if… what if we consolidate them all and I send you… fifty?”

“Miss, are you aware your bills total over $65,000?”

“I said I’m unemployed,” you repeat. As far as they can track, it’s true, and you _are_ willing to try to work things out, but you have to pay for your own needs, first. “I can’t give you money I don’t have. I can send you fifty a month, and maybe — _maybe_ —on a good month a little bit more. But fifty is all I can promise.”

“Can you make a payment now?” she asks.

“I don’t have a credit card, but I can get you a money order later today.”

You pull a little notepad and pen out of the medicine cabinet, because you need to have them in every room, and take down the information you’ll need. You both say thank you and neither of you means it, and it takes every bit of strength in every muscle to not slam your phone down on the counter when you end the call, but the last thing you need is more shit to replace.

You cover your face with your hands and groan. After you give yourself some time to get your shit together, you go back to drying and brushing out your hair and scrubbing off the glitter and foam.

But a couple little bits still stick in your hair, and the way it sparkles when you turn your head makes you feel a little better.

You smile at yourself, give yourself a double pistols and a wink, and head into your bedroom to get some clean clothes.

 

You dress yourself down as much as you can to walk to the grocery store for your money order. Yoga pants, because you can wear them lower than your scar, a two-toned blue baseball t-shirt, a ponytail. A canvas bag because you need something to eat later. It’s hard, at first, because you haven’t had any rest other than your nap in the bathtub, and the healing skin hurts with every step, with every tiny pull, but the longer you go, the easier it gets. Maybe you’ll start going for a short walk every day. Even just around the block.

You get the money order first. You’re there so often that even the people who dislike you still know you and nobody needs your ID anymore. The woman behind the desk treats you with cold professionalism and gives you a disapproving look as you walk away. She can go fuck herself.

It’s been a while since you’ve been grocery shopping for real — up until now, you’ve sent Marshall with money and asked him to buy whatever is cheap —but you go through everything like clockwork. The sale flyer this week is mostly garbage, but strawberries are cheap and chicken thighs are on sale. There’s a coupon for a granola you like and another for coconut milk. At least the granola and strawberries are a definite meal and if you can’t figure out what to do with the chicken right away, you can freeze it.

The cashier is the sweet teenager from the high school near Marshall’s college, and he smiles at you and calls you Miss and says he missed you, where have you been? And you smile because he means it, and it makes it a little easier to get through the rest of your morning.

 

* * *

 

It’s almost eleven when you get home. Dani said she works tonight, but you don’t know when. You can’t imagine any later than nine or ten. She’s probably sleeping. You don’t want to wake her up, so you don’t call.

You put your food away. You fall into bed, flip-flops and all, and in seconds, you’re asleep.

* * *

 

You don’t call her when you wake up, either. You don’t want to be a bother. Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure.

 

* * *

 

You don’t get time off. Scheduling your own hours doesn’t mean you get to be easy on yourself. So even though you find ways to stall, you’re still only out the door five minutes late, and you still need to get to where you need to be on time, if barely.

And it starts again.

 

* * *

 

It’s impossible to sleep when you get home that morning and you’re still awake at ten a.m., staring at the ceiling. Even after a warm bath and your favorite lotion and cozying yourself up in your comfiest pajamas, you still feel dirty and worn and frayed.

So even though you still don’t know what happened any more than you did since your talk with Marshall, even though you still don’t have an answer or an explanation, you text Dani with a simple, _Call me?_

There’s no reply, even automated, so she must be off shift. For a while you hold your phone nervously, expectantly, but there’s no reply.

She _does_ work twenty-four hour stretches. She’s probably sleeping.

You sigh and roll over but keep hold of your phone. When your eyes start to water a little, you pull the blanket over your head, even though there’s nobody around to see you anyway.

It’s unclear how much time passes before she calls you, but you’re not _quite_ asleep, yet.

“H’lo?” you murmur.

“Hey.” Dani’s voice is soft and just as sleepy as yours, and _oh_ it would be nice just to curl up beside each other and fall asleep together, wouldn’t it?

A pause.

“Sorry I didn’t text you,” she starts. “I thought… it seemed like waiting for you to make the first move on your own terms would be better.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Thank you.” You pull the blanket down a little, still curled around your head, but now baring your eyes. They dart over the things on your walls; posters and photographs, mostly from thrift shops, bulletin boards with cards you’ve found on the ground and pictures you’ve clipped out of magazines. Nobody could ever accuse you of wasting your money on frivolous things.

“How are you?” she finally asks.

“I still don’t really know,” you admit. “I don’t have an answer for either of us, yet.”

“Can I help?” she asks gently.

“Do you want to come over?” It tumbles out before you can stop yourself. You curl in on yourself a little, tightening your fist in the blanket tucked around your nose.

“Yeah.” Her voice is a little surprised, but very pleased. “Yeah, I’d love that. That’s okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmur.

“Okay,” she says. “To pick you up and go somewhere?”

“No.” You shake your head, even though there’s no one here to see it. “Come up. I’ll give you my number.”

You can almost hear a sharp intake of breath. Maybe. Or maybe you just want to, because you want her to realize how huge this is.

“Okay,” she says. “Give me about ten minutes to get ready and I’ll be on my way.”

True to her word, she sends you a text exactly ten minutes later to tell you she’s starting the car. She’s so dependable. Honest. _Real_. Everything you need and everything you don’t deserve and everything you’ll never have, because they always eventually leave in the end. Always.

And it hurts to think that about Dani, it hurts so, so _much_ , because she’s different. She _is_. But you thought everyone else was, too. You can’t bring yourself to end it, but you have to protect yourself for the inevitable fallout, somehow.

 

* * *

 

She calls when she pulls in and you give her your apartment number. Right in the middle of the complex, you say, in building B. Second floor all the way at the left end of the hallway.

Even though it’s not cold, you pull a cardigan over your t-shirt, like armor. You leave it unbuttoned, loose and shapeless. There’s a knock, a quick, sharp _one two_ , and you open the door.

Dani’s standing there, of course, but you knew she would be. She’s in another Phoenix FD t-shirt and the same loose, tattered jeans, and something about that means so much to you because it was more important for her to get over here and make sure you were okay than to try to dress and impress you.

“Hey,” you whisper. You pull your cardigan a little tighter around your shoulders.

“Hey.” Her voice is just as soft as yours. You step to the side and invite her in.

There’s tea, you say, but no coffee, because you used the last of it last night and it was too expensive at the store you went to. But you have a pretty wide variety. Eight kinds collected over the past few months.

“Do you have any black tea?” she asks.

“Earl Grey?”

“Sure,” she says.

So you make a cup for her and a cup of mint tea for yourself, and you both sit down at the table. You press your knees tight together and tuck your feet under your chair, curl in your shoulders, bow your head.

“What’s wrong?”

You look up. She could easily reach across the tiny table to touch you if she wanted, but she doesn’t. She gives you space. She lets you decide if you want to come to her, and you almost start crying again at how _respectful_ she is to you.

“All the wrong things,” you finally whisper. She casually rests her hand in the middle of the table, an offering to meet you halfway. You do, but barely, just pressing your knuckles against her palm. She curls her hand around yours and waits for you to speak.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now if you aren’t ready,” she finally says. You finally look up to meet her eyes. “We don’t have to talk about anything. We could just watch a movie or something. I could take you out for lunch if you’re hungry. Whatever.”

You look back down again and take a shuddering breath.

“I want you to feel safe with me.” Her voice is so much quieter, suddenly. “I understand if you don’t trust me yet, but… but at least I want you to know I’m not going to hurt you.”

You breathe in slowly.

“I only throw kittens down the stairs,” she says. “I’ve never thrown a person.”

Your laugh is ugly and wet and a little desperate, but you need it, and when you look at Dani’s face again as she gently pushes your hair away from your face, she’s smiling, and finally, you’re smiling, too.

 

* * *

 

Eventually you decide to stay in and watch a movie. You let Dani pick because you don’t know what her triggers are and everything on your shelf is safe for you. She picks an old VHS tape with a poorly scribbled label that only reads, “cartoons!” in green marker.

“I don’t think I even remember what this is,” you chuckle. She hands you the tape and you turn it around in your hands a few times, as if somehow that will tell you. “Let me hook up my VCR.” You do, and you turn the TV on and slide the tape in and adjust the tracking, and the first thing that comes on is the very first episode of the Samurai Pizza Cats cartoon you used to watch.

“Oh my god!” Suddenly you can’t stop smiling, even if it’s just a small one, and you back up to sit beside Dani on the couch. “Did you ever see this show?”

“I don’t think so,” she says. “I remember it being around when I was in middle school… ish? Maybe a high school freshman? But I don’t think I ever saw any of it.”

“It’s ridiculous,” you grin. “I loved it. It’s… about cats who deliver pizza. And are also samurais who fight crime. The title is pretty self-explanatory.”

Even though the animation hasn’t aged well, the dialogue and jokes have, as cheesy and ridiculous as they are. You even sit through the commercials a few times, laughing at how horrible the graphics were back then and commenting on things like how awesome such and such snack food looked but then you bought it and it was actually disgusting.

“Like anything fruit flavored and gummy,” Dani says.

You give her a level stare. “You’re dead to me.”

She smiles crookedly and you smile awkwardly back, because it’s the first real joke you’ve made since you left her apartment, and it feels so, so good. And this time, when you settle back beside her, you curl into her side and she wraps her arm tightly around your shoulders.


	9. Chapter 9

The tape is a full eight hours of various cartoon shows and specials. After hour one, you’ve both stretched out on the couch and Dani has wrapped her arms around your waist. Hour two, you’ve pulled the throw down off the back of the couch and lazily slopped it down on top of you. And hour three, you’re on the floor in a tiny, low ceilinged makeshift blanket fort done with couch cushions and the little throw that isn’t even as long as you are tall. It’s crochet, so little pinpricks of light still shine through, covering your skin with lace of light and shadow as you whisper to each other like teenagers trying not to get caught by your parents. This time, you kiss her first, and instead of your waist, Dani’s hands gently cup around your neck as you roll on top of her and your hair falls over your cheeks and into her face. This time, your kisses and touches are so much more hesitant, maybe even a little nervous, because what if whatever it was that happened last time happens again and you have another breakdown?

But this time, you talk to each other, soft whispers of _can I_ and _is it okay if_ and _do you want me to_ before any big changes, and there’s no hair pulling or teeth or nails, as nice as it was. It’s just skin and air and lips, and _oh_ , it’s barely been two days but you _missed_ this. You missed the soft, caring touches, the loving whispers, and the _kisses_ , _oh_ , she’s such a good kisser, warm lips and soft tongue and gentle hands that know just where and how to move.

Your hair falls into her face yet again and you giggle into her mouth. She grins against you and gently gathers it up and wraps it loosely around her hand, just once, before holding it to the back of your head, and something about it is so intimate and loving you could _cry_.

But you don’t. Your laugh is a little wet, but there are no tears this time. You kiss her instead, again, and again, and again.

But you’re both so tall and your blanket fort is so tiny that it’s not long before Dani’s leg stretches out a little too far and her foot knocks over one of the cushions and everything comes down on top of you. You kneel, pushing your hands around through the throw to try to find the edges, and finally you manage to poke your head out and bring it down around your shoulders. Dani still lies quietly beneath you, her short but curly hair sticking up and ruffled and a little flushed around her ears.

“Sorry,” she smiles, and at least she has the decency to look a little embarrassed.

You laugh. You drop down to one elbow and kiss her chin and then roll onto the floor beside her, careful to not take the coffee table legs in your back.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

 

* * *

 

For the second time in the past twenty-four hours, you’re awoken by your phone. The dull vibrating on the table is even louder than the ringtone itself and the static from the TV tells you that you’ve been asleep for long enough for the tape to run its course. At least five hours. What time is it?

Dani stirs beside you and you force your eyes open, dry and sandy, and you rub at them like it will help but it doesn’t. Suddenly the vibrating dulls and the tone gets louder and you realize Dani’s picked it up, although she hasn’t answered it.

“Estrella, your phone,” she murmurs. Her voice is thick and husky and half-asleep. She runs her hand down your arm. You shiver.

You answer the phone with a soft, “Hello?” without checking the caller ID. It can’t be the hospital again, not already, and hardly anyone else has your number.

“Hey, ‘Strella!”

You chuckle. It catches and you clear your throat. “Hey, Marshall.”

“So, you know. Okay. I know how much you hate me when I do things like this but —”

“Marshall.”

He sighs. Dani’s hand still rubs gently up and down your arm, and she’s so warm underneath your cheek and you’re so cozy underneath the double layer of blanket and sweater, you kind of just want to go back to sleep.

“I got you some stuff,” he says.

“What do you mean, stuff?”

He clears his throat. “I know… I know we looked into a bunch of things not that long ago. Like I know it’s barely been three months. But after what happened and you ended up in the hospital and… so, I did some research and I don’t know how accurate it is,” he finally starts.

“Uh-huh.”

“And we both know they could pretend like they have some other reason not to interview or hire you.”

“Yeah, Marshall, clearly. You think I’m here because I like it?”

“No!”

You sigh and close your eyes, nuzzling against Dani’s shirt, wash-beaten and softer than any piece of clothing you own.

“So you did… what exactly?”

“I did some research for trans friendly companies in your area. That you could get to easily without having to spend a bunch on a cab until you can finally save up for a car.”

Your brow furrows. “Marshall, I appreciate it. I really do. It means a lot that you’d do this for me. But it’s just going to go the same way it did last time. Even if I get the call back, they’ll hear my voice and change their minds or they’ll see the gender marker on my ID and suddenly they’ll remember the position has been filled or I won’t be a good fit or some other bullshit.”

“Yeah, I know, but —”

You grumble into Dani’s shirt, frustrated, and her hand stills on your shoulder.

“Well, whatever. I’ll bring it over and you can look at it or not.”

You huff sharply through your nose, but you still say, “Okay, I’ll be here,” and you’re still smiling when you hang up the phone.

Your arm flops down loosely on Dani’s stomach. You don’t move. She shakes you a little and says, “Estrella? What’s up?”

You huff into her shirt again, but a few seconds later you lift your head enough that she can see your lips move.

“Marshall is on his way over. He’s bringing me some things.”

She nods, but doesn’t speak, and neither do you because you don’t have anything else to say.

“You want me to stay and meet him or would you rather me leave?” she finally asks.

Your hand tightens on your phone and your face tightens a little, too. Introducing her to Marshall is introducing her to your family. Are you _ready_ for that? This is only date two and a half!

But the fact that she asked _do you want her to_ rather than _can she,_ for some reason that changes everything, and you say, “Yeah. I don’t have much but I can find something to eat. Maybe we can have dinner. You said you like cooking, right?”

She grins. “I _love_ cooking. It’ll be like a black box.”

“A… what?” You push yourself up to your elbows to make it easier to talk, half leaning over her chest.

“A black box. It’s when someone just throws a bunch of random stuff in front of you and says ‘cook something with this’. It’s awesome.”

And you smile because she’s smiling, so brightly, and you say, “Maybe you can teach me how to better manage my mixed-up pantry.”

Her grin widens and she says, “I’d _love_ to.”

 

* * *

 

At first you try to help Dani look through all of your cabinets, the fridge and the freezer, but your kitchen is so small and you don’t know what you’re doing, so when Marshall finally knocks on the door, you’re glad to excuse yourself.

When you let him in he spreads out one arm, an offer for a hug, and even though you usually turn him down, this time, you take it. You give him a one armed hug back and he hands you a big manilla envelope with your name scrawled on it in sharpie, with little stars drawn all around it. Your mouth turns up in a smile and he gently bumps you with his hip.

“Get to it when you get to it,” he says. He pauses, then looks over toward the kitchen when he finally notices the rustling around.

He nods his chin toward the wall that blocks off the tiny space. “Who’s here?”

You glance over your shoulder. “It’s… it’s Dani.”

“Yeah?” His grin is too big for your comfort and he gently nudges you with his elbow. “The sexy EMT?” He drops his voice and murmurs, “I didn’t get a very good look when I was your backup at the coffeeshop. Do I get a closeup this time?”

“Shut _up_ ,” you laugh. “And she’s a paramedic, and yes. She likes to cook and I thought that, since it’s getting later on, we could all eat together and you could meet her.” You finally look over at him. “And not embarrass me.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets and leans closer. “When have I _ever_ been embarrassing?” he asks.

You give him a Look. He simply looks back, nonplussed. You both burst out laughing, and Dani finally peeks back around the wall to say, “I think I’ve got a few things, if you want to come over and give me the go ahe—” She trails off when she sees Marshall standing beside you and walks back out into the living room.

“Marshall, I assume?” she asks. She leans forward into her handshake.

“Marshall,” he affirms.

“Dani.”

“I hear you’re the badass paramedic that saved my best friend’s life?”

Dani clears her throat, taken aback by the compliment, and nods her head.

He nudges you and leans in to say, “Bet you’re glad she did. She’s gorgeous. If I weren’t gay I’d be all over her.”

“Stop talking.” You cover his mouth with your hand. He’s not wrong, but still. You can say whatever you want when it’s just you and Dani, but your friends saying stuff like that while she’s around? No. That’s weird.

“I know you’re not related, but if I hadn’t been told otherwise, I’d think you two were twins,” Dani says. You look back at her again with a crooked, amused smile.

“We get that a lot,” you say. Marshall still says nothing, because your hand is still over his mouth. He has the same thick, black, ridiculously curly hair, the same golden brown eyes, the same dark brown skin as you. You share the same rounded face and the same slope in your nose and your shoulders are even almost the same breadth. Your cheeks dimple in the same place and you both have dark brown blotches of birthmarks just below your left elbow. He’s less than an inch shorter than you. He and you have often made the joke that you were accidentally born into each others’ bodies, and if you could have just found a surgeon who could swap your brains, you’d both have been set.

The only difference is that he came from a supportive family with money and you didn’t, and so even when he came out, first as transgender, then as gay, he had a lot more opportunities than you ever have had or will have. But that’s not his fault. Neither of you chose to be anything you are. It all just happened.

“Come into the kitchen,” Dani says. She grasps your forearm, giving you a gentle tug. You laugh, and you follow, and Marshall follows you.

You all cram into the tiny space as Dani lays out your different options. Mushroom quiche with caramelized onions; baked mushroom chicken with rice and either green beans or carrots, roasted or steamed or however you want them; pasta with broccoli, garlic, and chicken in olive oil.

“How about… number three?” you finally say. “And put the chicken on the side so Marshall can eat some.” Marshall grins and gives you a thumbs up. Dani smiles, salutes, and goes about putting the excess ingredients away.

You end up standing side by side but facing opposite counters, trimming vegetables while Dani handles the chicken and Marshall stands near the end of the kitchen out of the way. You talk about Dani’s work and Marshall’s school and your hobbies, which have been completely ignored since you went back to work. You talk about food and family —your friends, Marshall’s parents, Dani’s workmates.

You talk about how family is made up of the people you surround yourself with, and that they _say_ you can’t pick your family, but only because they don’t know better.

* * *

 

You purposely don’t look at your phone or either of your clocks for as long as you can, telling yourself in the back of your head, _maybe I can just skip one night. Just one._ Even as the day draws long and the sun slowly sets and you have to turn the inside lights on, you try to think, _just tonight will be okay_ , because you’re not like some of the other women who work for other people. You only have to answer to yourself.

Marshall shouts ‘Uno!” for the third time in the game and you put your cards facedown and stand.

“I’ll be right back,” you say.

“Yeah,” Dani says. She and Marshall watch you as you leave, but neither says anything more.

You lock yourself into your bedroom before you do anything else. Then, you open your sliding closet door and stand on your toes to shuffle all the things on the very top shelf around before you pull down the red cookie tin where you keep everything important.

The money isn’t organized yet, so you do that as you count. It’s all an equal mess of large and small bills. You count once, twice, and a third time just to make sure the number is right.

There’s a little over a week left in the month. Your phone and electric are paid but you’d still be cutting it close. _Really_ close. And if you get too close to the day rent is due you might have to expand and offer to do some things you _really_ don’t want to.

You bite your lip and glance down at the six separate stacks, one for each bill size. Look back up at the calendar, back down at the money again.

One night. One night. It’ll be okay.

 

* * *

 

Dani and Marshall both have their cards facedown on the table when you come back, waiting for you so everyone can finish the game together.

“Everything okay?” Marshall asks. You nod. Then you look toward Dani and smile.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It is.”

You don’t have many games other than Uno, so after the game is over you play makeshift Pictionary by writing the names of random things on slips of paper and putting them all in a mixing bowl. Then you pull out the plain old deck of cards and play Old Maid, Crazy Eights, Go Fish, all the silly, ridiculous games you used to play when you were younger. At about eleven you make some popcorn. Neither Marshall nor Dani make any mention that you haven’t left.

You play games and make stupid jokes and laugh early into the morning, until Dani finally has to leave at about three a.m. to get back to Bucky.

“I’d stay if I could,” she says, “but I can’t leave him overnight. He needs to eat and go out.”

She kisses your forehead and you kiss her mouth and Marshall applauds you both, and even though he’s kind of making fun of you, you also know he’s just happy that things are finally working in your favor. Maybe getting attacked was the low point. Maybe things will continue to go up from here.

Marshall stays, and you wrap yourselves up in a huddle of blankets on the couch and watch old Disney movies and fall asleep side-by-side, like you used to so many years ago.


	10. Chapter 10

Marshall has to leave first thing in the morning, at seven a.m., to get to school. You wake up for just long enough to give him a hug and lock him out and you don’t even make it back to your bedroom. You make it as far as the couch and then tumble in and fall back to sleep.

When you wake up again, you fumble around in the kitchen for a few minutes to make yourself a cup of tea. It’s not as good as coffee, but it’s something. You make the same Earl Grey you made for Dani, but you drink it straight. As you walk back to the living room to pick up the blankets and fix the couch, your eye catches the envelope Marshall brought you. You pause and take a sip of your tea, glancing toward the door for… you don’t know what. Who would be there?

You pull out your chair, put down your cup far enough away that you won’t accidentally knock it over, and you slide the small stack of papers out of the envelope.

It’s organized and everything. He even made you a table of contents covered in pink and blue and silver star stickers. You smile and sigh and shake your head and pretend that it doesn’t make you want to tear up a little.

Retail, then food service, then office work, then miscellaneous. You pull out your laptop and google each one for anti-discrimination and hiring policies, even though hiring policies don’t mean anything.

Half of them only pay minimum wage, and you can’t live on that. You take them out and put them to the side, only as a set of last resorts. Another half of what’s left are only hiring part time, which, again, you can’t live on. Those go in the pile, too.

What’s left are a few office positions and a couple for the hospital where you were.

The hospital information gets thrown to the side, too, because you were clearly not welcome there even as a patient.

Four positions left. Two in insurance, each for a different company, but both for general secretary work, filing, and handling calls. One for a lower management position in scheduling for a bank. One as a filing clerk at a different hospital.

You lick your lips, take a deep breath, and pick up your phone to make the first call.

The first insurance company is always looking for new people, Sir, and they’d be happy to have you come to one of their open interviews. Thank you, you say, but it’s Miss. Suddenly the woman on the other line seems flustered and apologizes, because she thought there were some empty spaces but she was mistaken. But if you give her your number she’ll call you back for the next round of interviews.

You do so, even though you know she won’t.

The second call is much the same. You’ll be on the phone with customers all day, the man says, and, you know, they’re looking for people with a certain _type_ of voice.

 _Pleasant feminine voices_ , you think, but all you say is, “I understand.”

The man who picks up at the bank doesn’t even give you time to out yourself. The position’s been filled, he says, and the website must not have been updated. He’s sorry if they’ve wasted your time, but you can check back in a week and see if there’s something available at another location.

You make a note in the corner of the application. _Check website and call back. Ask for George. Potential._

You give yourself a ten minute break with your tea and some cookies before calling the last one. It goes much the same as the first did, bringing you full circle.

With a heavy sigh and then a groan, you rub at your mouth with your knuckles and think, _you don’t know how much longer you can keep this up_.

* * *

 

You spend the day pampering yourself with long, luxurious baths and foot and hand massages and newly painted nails, even though, right now, it’s just you. You have tea and cookies for lunch because you’re an adult and you can, and you brush your hair out with one-hundred strokes each area, like Marshall’s parents had him do when he was little. It’s kind of ridiculous that you found each other —what kind of coincidence even _is_ that —but you’re so grateful, because he was able to teach you things you’d never have been able to learn otherwise. A little lavender oil mixed with some jojoba to keep the ends nice. You rub the extra into your cuticles, too.

When you separate from yourself a little bit, you can pretend you’re getting ready for a nice date, or, if you were younger, an important dance. But you’re not. Maybe you never will, not really. It’s probably too late for that kind of chance.

Your eyes water a little and your first thought when you come back into your head is, _I wish Dani were here_.

* * *

 

They won’t appreciate it, but you dress yourself up really nice tonight, a little classier, with a nicer dress and a little glitter in your hair and some of your favorite sandalwood lotion. But it’s not for them. It’s for _you_ , and nobody can take that away. No matter what you let them pay you to do, _you are Estrella Diaz_ and maybe, at night, you temporarily put your body out for loan, but it’s still yours, and you can still say no, and you can still turn down things you don’t want to do. You are strong and you are fierce and you are fearless, and you have a best friend that loves you and a woman who cares a lot, and they both agree with you: you are a fucking _queen_.

You go out tonight with your head held high and your shoulders squared, because _you are a warrior_. You just have a lot more battles to pick than most.

The first half of the night is easier than the past few have been. It’s all the same, mostly handjobs and blowjobs, maybe you fuck one or two of them, but not much else because they have to pay _big_ money for the opportunity to fuck _you_. A couple of guys only want a striptease, which is _awesome_. It’s the one thing you enjoy, because you can flaunt how sexy you are and nobody gets to touch you.

Then, everything slows down, and you finally get a chance to reapply your makeup rather than just touch it up, you get a chance to sit, a chance to breathe. You play stupid games on your phone for a short while, but only for a half hour before you’re back on the street with purpose again.

* * *

 

“Hey, baby, nice tits!”

It’s just past one a.m. when they drive by. A group of three men, probably late in their college years, probably drunk, maybe even the driver. Just a once over is enough to tell you _no, stay the fuck away from this_.

“Fuck off!” you shout, stepping a little further to the opposite side of the sidewalk.

The one in the backseat leans out the window. “What, you’re a whore, right? Come on, why don’t you come with us? We’ll pay you good!”

The guy in the passenger’s seat laughs in the way only a drunk man can laugh. You slide your hand behind you, up into the small of your back where you sewed a hidden pocket for your switchblade.

“Even if I were, I wouldn’t do groups!” you shout back. “Fuck off! My boyfriend will be back any second and if you’re still here, he’ll kick your ass!”

None of them are smiling anymore.

“You think you’re too good for us, bitch?” he yells. Every muscle in your body tenses. You know that alpha male asshole body language better than any woman should have to. “Come on! You wouldn’t be out here this late looking like that if you weren’t looking to be fucked.”

You take a step back, another. The metal handle of the knife is cold under your fingers, and as you pull it out of your pocket, you don’t open it, but you carefully use your thumb to rotate the handle so it’s ready immediately if you need it.

The man in the backseat turns and says something to the driver you can’t hear. Your profile lip reading is so poor all you can make out is ‘her’. You take another step back, another, until you’re about two feet away from the sidewalk opposite the street. The dirt is rocky and uneven, bits of gravel and tufts of dead grass, and you flex your toes slightly to loosen your heels in case you need to run.

Then suddenly, the tires squeal so hot and loud that the sound is everywhere, and for a second you think they’ve driven off in a rage but no, the driver veers off the road _toward_ you and then there’s a hand on your forearm and you don’t pause to see which man it belongs to, you kick off your heels, flip your knife open, turn, slash, and _run_. Whoever the arm belongs to screams, “Fuck!” but by then you’re already down the street, around the corner, and in the alleyway on your way to the only place you know is still open, the 24-hour gas station a half a mile away.

You run all the way there, chest heaving and arms pumping and by the time you get there your bare feet are torn to pieces, gravel and maybe, judging by the sharp pain that shoots up your calf every time you put your left heel down, a piece of glass, too, embedded deep into your soles. Your chest burns from the effort from running so far so fast and the shelves are blurry when you stumble in through the automatic doors and it’s only then that you realize _you’re crying_.

With a deep breath, you straighten your shoulders and lift your head, and even though you limp as you make your way to the counter, by the time you get there, your breathing is steady, even if your voice isn’t.

Your eyebrows draw tight together for a moment before you force your face calm again. The person staffing the counter is a man, maybe in his early fifties, and you’re expecting him to kick you out, _or worse_ , but you ask anyway,

“I missed my last bus on my way home from a concert and was trying to get to another one and three guys tried to jump me,” you start, and you start to waver even harder, and you grit your teeth even as your eyed burn hotter and wetter. “Can —” you pause, heaving in a sharp breath, but to your credit you don’t _cry_ cry. “Can I please stay here while I call someone to come get me? I’ll wait wherever you want me to, out of the way somewhere, please, I —”

And then he smiles at you, but it’s a _real_ smile, gentle and kind and _nothing_ like what you’re used to outside of Marshall and Dani.

“Of course, dear,” he says softly. He seems to reconsider, but when he speaks, it’s to say, “Do you mind if I call you that?”

You shake your head.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Do… do you have somewhere I can sit down?”

You shift your feet, trying to find a way to stand that doesn’t hurt, but he can still see you flinch when you accidentally shift your weight to your heel.

He takes a few steps away and leans back, calling through a door, “Joey, bring out a chair from the break room for me!”

“Sure, Dad!” The call comes back from a woman, and you smile, and you let yourself relax just a little.

A woman about your age comes out shortly after with a chair swung easily over her shoulder. When she sees you, her eyes widen, and she says, “Oh, man, I’m so sorry, Miss. I thought I was just bringing it out to change a light bulb or something. Over here, over here.” She gestures you toward the edge of the counter, where she disappears and reappears through a swinging door. “Here, here,” she says, pushing the chair up against the corner. She pushes her red hair awkwardly out of her blue eyes and pulls it back into the ponytail it fell from as she says, “Do you… do you want something to put your feet on? All we got is a milk crate but —”

“No, it’s okay,” you say, because even though yes, you do, you don’t want to ask too much and get sent away. You hobble closer and collapse into the chair, pulling your phone out of the pocket in the small of your back.

“I’m just gonna…” you trail off with a weak smile, vaguely gesturing with the hand that holds your phone.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. She hesitates, then asks, “Do you want a cup of coffee or something?”

“No, thank you,” you answer, even though, again, yes, you do. But you’re not about to pull out a roll of cash to pay for it, because if they _do_ believe your shitty story, that would definitely blow your cover.

“Free of charge?” she says. The way she holds her hands palms up as she offers reminds you a little of Dani, and you soften and say,

“Thank you.” 

* * *

 

You call Dani first, because she’s most likely to be up. It goes to voicemail. You hang up.

Marshall is next. No answer.

Dani again. Same.

You hang up and drop you hands to your lap, staring blankly at the screen of your phone. Your coffee sits, barely touched, by your foot. Suddenly, the night catches up with you, the taunts, the shit-talking, the backhanded ‘compliments’, the hands all over you that you never wanted and never asked for but have to take to make your way, everything leading up to the three men in the car and everything after. And it _hurts_ , it hurts so, so _much_ , a simultaneous sharpness and emptiness in your chest, a tightness in your throat that burns like hot needles. Your feet are full of knives and your knees and ankles and back and head and heart and everything _hurts_ , but you still don’t cry, because you can’t.

You try Dani again.

Again.

 _Again_ , because if you keep calling she has to answer eventually, _right_?

Finally, on the sixth call, she does answer, and her voice is gravelly and her words are a little slurred when she says, “Estrella?”

“I need you to come get me,” you choke. “Please.” And now you _are_ crying, thick, hot tears pooling in your eyes and dragging your eyeliner in a mess down your face, but at least it’s quiet, and at least if you bow your head, nobody can tell.

Suddenly her voice is much more alert and there’s a rustling in the background. “Where are you?” she says. “I’m out the door in two minutes.”

“At —” You choke on yourself, and when you try again, your breath is too fast and heavy. “The corner of 59th and Monroe,” you sob. “At the, at the —”

“The gas station there?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m on my way. I’m in the car now. Are you safe where you are?”

You push your hair out of your face and nod, then affirm out loud.

“Okay. I have to plug in the streets to my GPS so I can figure out the quickest way to get there. I’ll put you on speakerphone but if something happens and I get disconnected I’ll call you _right_ back, okay?”

“Okay.” And now, even with your head bowed and your free hand covering your eyes, your shoulders are shaking so hard and you’re sobbing so loud, nobody would be able to mistake your crying for anything else.

More rustling. When Dani speaks again, her voice is a little echoey. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, and you look up and around the store even as you curl further into yourself, like you’re the one on speakerphone.

“All right,” she says. “It looks like… hang on.”

More rustling.

“The quickest route is seventeen minutes. Will you be safe there until then?”

You look up and around again. Other than the young woman and her dad talking at the counter, it’s empty.

“Um, ex… excuse me, Sir?” you ask. They both turn to you.

“Yes, Miss?” His voice is so gentle.

“My…” you turn your head away to clear the tears out of your throat. “My ride will be here in seventeen minutes? Is that okay?”

He smiles at you. He nods. “Of course,” he says.

You turn back into the phone. “Yeah, they said I can wait here.”

“Okay. Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

You’re about to say ‘no’. You don’t want to be a burden. You don’t want to be a bother.

But then, you realize: if you don’t take care of yourself, nobody else will. Marshall and Dani can try to help you to the end of the world, but when it comes down to it, _you_ have to do it for _yourself_.

So you answer, “Yeah. Please.”

“Of course.”

You don’t even talk much. You mostly sit, silently, listening to the vague, background sounds of her car. Every now and then she asks, “Still there?” or “Okay?” and you answer, “Yeah.” 

* * *

 

Dani stays on the phone until she steps in the door and you can see her face. She doesn’t run, but her stride is quick, and she drops to a kneel in front of you and pushes your hair out of your face, gently gathering it at the back of your neck with one hand.

“Are you hurt?” she whispers.

You shake your head. She gently turns your face left, then right, glances down your body, and then,

“You have blood on your arm.” Her voice is low enough that the man and his daughter can’t hear.

“It’s not mine,” you whisper.

Her eyes lock on yours for barely a moment, soft, worried, but her jaw is set tight. “We’ve got to get you cleaned up,” she murmurs. Slowly, you stand, reaching out to her shoulder for support, but the pain that shoots up your legs is sharp and hot and you instinctively try to lift them both and stumble back into the chair. Moments later, Dani is sitting and has them propped up on her knees.

“You said you weren’t hurt,” she says.

You swallow. “I meant… I meant _they_ didn’t hurt me,” you murmur.

“What happened to your feet?”

“I ran here barefoot. I would have snapped my ankles if I’d tried in heels.” You offer a pathetic smile. She looks up at you, frowning at first. But then she gives a small smile back.

"I’m going to need you to explain what happened,” she says softly. “Just so I know what I need to do. But not here.”

“No,” you choke.

She hushes you. “Not here,” she whispers. “It’s okay. But I need to take care of your feet, okay? Is there a bathroom here? I need water and soap.”

“No,” you murmur again, and you drop your head, and your shoulders shake and you just keep murmuring, like a broken record, “no, no, no.”

“Okay, okay,” she whispers. She gently runs her hand through your hair again but you still don’t look up. “Can I take you back to my place? I can clean you up there. And then as soon as we’re done, I can take you home if you want. I have a first aid kit in my car but I have better stuff back home.”

“I don’t want to go back home.” Your words are so tiny, so afraid, and when Dani wraps her arms around you, you collapse in a pile of heaving, pathetic sobs.

“Sh, sh, sh,” she whispers. “It’s okay. It’s okay now.”

But it’s not okay, it’s not, and maybe it never will be.

* * *

 

She curls her arms around your knees and back and lifts you like you weigh no more than a couple of slightly heavy grocery bags. She thanks the man and woman for looking after you as you pass by, and you curl into her chest, hands pressed up tight into the middle of your own.

By the time you get out to the car, your shoulders and stomach are heaving with sobs, and when she asks you if you want to lie down in the back seat or sit up in the front with you, you can’t manage to spit out even a yes or a no, even though neither of those would answer the question. She sets you up in the front seat, kisses your temple, and says, “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

Her hand stays tight on your knee the whole drive back to her house, and she carries you inside, too, and sets you up on the couch with your feet sticking off. She kisses your forehead and says, “I’ll be _right back_. I just need to get a few things, okay?”

You nod, but your hands tighten on the back of her neck as she backs away. She takes both of your hands and squeezes tightly. “ _Right back_ ,” she repeats.

Bucky trots into the room when he hears the rustling around. He sits down just at the side of the doorway and looks up at Dani as she passes by to the bathroom. She distractedly pats his head as she turns the corner.

Finally, you close your eyes.

When Dani comes back, her hands are gloved and she has a box under one arm and a huge stack of gauze in the other.

The first thing she does is clean the blood off your arm, throw all the materials away, and change her gloves. When she kneels down at the end of the couch to look at your feet, she says, “You’ve got some glass stuck in here pretty deep.” She looks up at you. “Do you want me to take you to the hospital? I _can_ do stitches but it would have to be with, like, sewing thread or something. And I don’t have anything to numb you.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows. “Do I _need_ stitches?” The words get stuck in your throat and you have to try a few times to get them all out in the right order.

“I don’t know yet,” she says. You swallow, looking from your feet and up into her eyes.

“I’m not going back just to let them treat me like shit again,” you finally say, because you deserve _better_ , and you’re going to start demanding it. “Do what you need to do. We’ll only go if it’s necessary.”

“Are you sure?” Her voice is quiet and her eyes are locked on yours. “Because it’s going to fucking hurt like _hell_.”

“It already does,” you sob.

Her eyes soften and she turns over toward her bedroom. “Bucky!” she calls. “C’mere, boy! Come see Estrella!”

His ears and tail perk up and he trots over to the couch, where he sits right near your shoulder.

“Try to focus on him, okay?” she says. “Pet him, talk to him, whatever. Pull him into your lap and cuddle if you want. This is his job, and he’s really good at it.”

“O—” you hiss in sharp through your teeth at the sudden pressure and sharp burn, then manage to weakly finish, “kay.”

Bucky gently puts one paw up on the couch beside you and tilts his head, as if to ask, _Do you need help?_

“If it gets to be too much, tell me and we’ll stop,” Dani says.

“Okay.” Your voice shakes even harder than your hands, but Bucky gently butts his head into you, and when you curl your fingers into the loose scruff of his neck and he presses his nose to your cheek, it helps.

At first you feel a little stupid, talking out loud to a dog in front of someone else, but he’s so responsive and friendly and Dani is so encouraging, eventually you stop caring. You talk to him about how good a cook his mom is and the movies you watched with Marshall last night, about how you want to get back into sewing again but you just never have the drive, time, and energy all at the same time. And somehow, with only nuzzles and nose bumps, Bucky manages to worm out all the little secrets nobody else has been able to. None of the _big_ ones. But you tell him about the little house you want one day, with a garden in the back where you can grow things. You tell him that when you were a child you wanted to go into the arts when you finally reached college, but then you never even finished high school. You tell him about the crush you had on your old friend Jenn once upon a time, and how, when you told her, she got weird and distant and talked to you less and less and then, eventually, not at all. You tell him you don’t miss your family even though sometimes you feel like you’re supposed to.

Of course you’re aware that Dani is only feet away, listening as she cleans and patches up your feet, and maybe that’s _why_ you’re saying it, because you don’t know how to open up and a dog is safe. Even if the human being you really want to say it to is right next to you. You give Bucky a good scratch behind the ears and then hug him tight. He’s so patient, and he even puts his paw on your arm like he’s hugging you back.

“You’re such a good dog, Bucky,” you say.

“He is.”

For the first time since you started talking, you look up at Dani. She smiles at you. “The easy stuff is done,” she says. “What do you want to do about the glass? I got out all the little bits, but there’s one pretty big one in your left heel.”

“Pull it out,” you say.

“Are you _sure_?” she repeats. “It’s going to hurt _really fucking bad_.”

“Just do it.”

“All right.” She turns to Bucky and calls his name. He turns toward her, ears up straight. “Hug Estrella.”

“Wha—” you start, but then the top half of your torso is covered in dog and Bucky is nuzzling up under your chin. You laugh and wrap your arms around him, but then the glass pulls through your skin, sharp and hot and cutting, and you squeeze your eyes closed and muffle your scream in his neck. By the time Dani is done cleaning and bandaging your foot, you’re sobbing and shaking in pain, but Bucky stays put and then Dani’s hand rests on your leg, just below your knee, so, so gently.

You finally look up as Dani stands and pulls off her gloves. Your eyeliner is running and your lipstick is smudged across your cheek. You have snot all over your face and dog hair in your mouth and your hair is all over the place.

And Dani still lifts your chin, so gently, and kisses your cheek like you’re the most important, most precious, most beautiful thing in the world.

“You were awesome,” she whispers. You smile weakly and she kisses your forehead.

“You’ll need to stay off your feet for a while,” she continues. “And you’ll probably want to get a tetanus shot, just to be safe. I didn’t see any metal but your feet are really torn up.” She crouches down beside you and gently tugs on Bucky’s collar. “Down,” she whispers. He crawls off of you, but gives your hand one last lick, like he’s trying to tell you you’ll be okay.

“How far did you have to run like that?” she asks softly.

“About a half a mile.” You flex your feet experimentally and immediately regret it, flinching with a loud whimper.

“Try not to move them too much,” Dani says. “At least not for a few hours.”

Her thumb on your neck almost makes up for it, stroking gently just below your jaw. Suddenly your body just… _stops_ , and you close your eyes and sink into the couch.

“Estrella, don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not tough as hell,” she murmurs. You’re too tired to respond with anything but a weak laugh and a half smile. She kisses your forehead.

“Just get some rest. We’ll talk about it when you wake up, okay?”

 _No_ , you want to say, _we won’t talk about it ever because it’s over and it’s staying over_. But you don’t.

You mumble softly as she lifts you again, and she says, “I’m going to take you to the bed so you can actually sleep comfortably. Is that all right?”

You think you might nod, but you’re too tired to know for sure.

She kisses your head, her mouth hot against your hair.

You sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

You dream of their hands around your throat, their mouths on your stomach, their teeth in your thighs, of anger and fear and hatred.

When you wake up, you’re crying, and, when you look around, also in a place you don’t know.

You immediately curl in yourself, eyes darting around the room, over the messy purple sheets still tucked in neat down in the right bottom corner. It’s silent and dark and when you sob, it’s like a baseball bat through glass.

Then, suddenly, Bucky’s face is right up in yours, bumping you under the chin and licking your cheek. The weight of his paws on your legs and his rough fur under your hands suddenly snaps you back in, to your location and to your present.

You’re at Dani’s. But, “Where is she?”

Bucky makes a soft, inquisitive sound that’s not quite a whine, and you look back at him and ask, “Where’s Dani?”

He crawls off you and sits beside the bed. You roll over. Even the barest weight of the blanket on your feet is sharp enough to make your breath hitch and your eyes water.

You cover your mouth, as if to stifle a gasp, even though there’s no noise. You were asleep before she could ask you what you wanted, so she just took the floor… in case of… what? In case you didn’t want to share a space? In case you needed to be by yourself? In case you would panic if you woke up next to another person in a weird place?

The last worry, at least, was spot on. Your eyes run over her, down to her bare feet, back up to her sleeping face again.

You lower yourself down to your stomach and carefully stretch out to shake her shoulder. She has no business sleeping on the floor in her own home. Now that you know where you are, you’re okay with sharing the bed. Even if she isn’t, you’ll take the couch. She doesn’t wake.

“Dani,” you whisper. “Dani!” a little louder.

Her eyes snap open and she pushes herself up on one elbow, running her hand through her messy hair and glancing around the room before resting her eyes on you. Her shoulders relax.

“Hey,” she whispers. “How are you?”

You smile, even though it’s weak and tired. “I’d be better if you got off that floor and came into bed. Do you want me to take the co—”

“Only if you’ll be more comfortable there,” she interrupts. With a grunt, she pushes herself to her feet and sits down beside your knees. She turns toward you and smiles. “I’m more than okay sharing my bed with you.”

Not sharing _a_ bed. Sharing _her_ bed. Sharing _her_ space. _With you_.

“Thank you,” you whisper, rolling over onto your back. She crawls over you, careful not to knock against your feet, and plops down on your other side, her arm still loose around your waist.

“You _awake_ awake or just up for a few minutes in between sleeping?” she asks softly.

You roll towards her, face to face. “Awake awake. At least for now.”

“Awake enough to tell my why you had to run so far barefoot that late at night?”

You swallow and drop your gaze to her shirt collar. You don’t answer.

“Estrella,” she starts.

“I _know_ ,” you interrupt. “I know. I know.” Your hands shoot to your face, covering it tight, but you still let Dani carefully move them away, wrapping her fingers around them instead.

“There were three of them,” you start.

Her jaw hardens and you look back down to her collarbone.

You tell her about the catcalls, how they were probably drunk, how you didn’t think much of it because it happens all the time and when you make it clear you’re not interested they usually go away. You tell her you knew what you were doing, and that you were prepared, because it’s happened before and was going to happen again. You tell her that work in general is the same as it’s always been, except,

“Except now it _hurts_ ,” you whisper. “It… it hurts _so much_. It makes me sick, it makes me afraid to look in the mirror, it makes me hate myself and my body and I’ve never felt like that, not for a second, in all these years. Not until —”

Suddenly your breath is staggering and sharp and you have to take a quick, deep inhale to keep yourself from breaking down.

“Not until I met you, Dani. You fucked it all up.”

Her hand spasms against yours and she starts to pull away. You grab her hand and hold it still.

“That’s not a bad thing,” you murmur. “It just… makes the rest of my life a lot more complicated.”

“Estrella? What —”

“I’ve… I’ve never been lucky enough to have someone like you in my life before,” you whisper. ”That’s nothing against Marshall at all. He’s amazing and he’d move mountains for me.” You finally look up, back at Dani’s face. You can barely see the outline of her face, her hair sticking up at the side, the shadow of her nose and the barest, _barest_ shape of her eyes. And you’re about to say something stupid, so instead of whispering, _I love you_ , you pull her close and kiss her. It’s chaste, but it lingers, and her hand stays tangled in your hair when you just barely pull away.

“You treat me the way I _deserve_ to be treated,” you whisper. “And with every night that passes it’s harder and harder to keep going out there, because they don’t, and I don’t know how much longer I can take it.” You bite your lip and your eyes lock with hers again. “I don’t know what you think I do out there, but I’m not a high-class courtesan. I’m like… just a few steps above a two dollar whore.”

“You’re so much more than that, Estrella,” Dani whispers. She gently nudges her forehead against yours and you close your eyes.

“I only have the potential to be,” you murmur back. “And I’m fucking wasting it, stuck here, in this shithole town with just enough to get by but not enough to get out. But I don’t know what other choice I have. There’s nowhere else to go.”

She gently kisses your nose and a smile starts to flutter at your lips, then she kisses the corner of your mouth and your cheek and your jaw and finally you _do_ start to smile, and only then does she gently press a brief kiss against your mouth.

“How about we sleep on it for a few hours and look at what your options are in the morning?” she asks. Her voice is soft and her eyelids are drooping. “I’m sorry. But I’m like half-asleep here and I want to be able to give this my full attention.”

“Yeah.” You kiss her nose and curl into her chest, and she wraps her arms around your shoulders.

 

* * *

 

You wake up alone again, and you sit up straight, hands sliding over the blankets and pillows like Dani is hiding somewhere underneath one of them and you’re just not looking in the right place because she wouldn’t have left you alone, not after _that_ , because, because she —

Then you pause and look up at the blank walls, back down at the purple sheets and the bed so much bigger than yours, and you remember, you’re still here, at her apartment. She must have woken up already and is just in the bathroom or something? You breathe in, deep and shaky, and you run your fingers through your hair a few times to break up the biggest of the tangles.

You put your right foot down, and when you lean your weight on your toes and it’s like walking on daggers and you _scream_ , deep and guttural and afraid, and you jerk back into the bed because for a half-second, you’d forgotten.

“Estrella?” Dani calls for you from another room. Quick footsteps, and she stumbles in the door. “Estrella, what —”

“I’m sorry,” you sob. You grit your teeth and breathe in hard through your nose as you try to calm yourself down. “Sorry. I. I didn’t realize how bad my feet were and I was going to get up to come find you and —”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” She sits down beside you and gently brushes your hair behind your shoulder. When her knuckles brush across your bare shoulder, you shudder and curl in on yourself. She drops her hand to her knee.

“Do you want some other clothes?” she asks. “I can loan you some of mine.”

"Ye—” but your voice catches, so you just nod instead.

“All right. I’ll get you a hairbrush, too?”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

She digs out a t-shirt and some drawstring pajama pants and lays them down beside you on the bed. “I’ll be right back,” she says, and she closes the door to just a crack behind you.

It takes some maneuvering, but you eventually manage to worm your way out of your dress and you drop it on the floor. Your bra you hold with the tip of one finger and your thumb, like it’s toxic, as you lean forward to get it as far away from you as possible.

Dani’s t-shirt is soft and cool and it smells like laundry soap and fabric softener and _home_ , or, what you imagine home would smell like. If you could take it home and use it as a pillowcase you’d never have to worry about getting solid sleep again. It’s loose in the shoulders and boxy around your torso, but you feel _safe_ like that, with a little piece of her wrapped around you.

The pants are tricky and you bump your feet a few times, but eventually you manage to crawl into those, too. They fit, sort of, but the waist is cut differently than what you’re used to and your hips are too narrow for them so you have to pull the drawstring tight to keep them up. You look up when Dani knocks on the door to announce her return.

Just like the first night you met her.

“Come in,” you say, because this time, she waits.

“Thought you might want to wash your face, too,” she says, holding up a shallow bowl with a washcloth inside.

Your brows draw close together even as you smile, and you soften a little — your body, your stance, your heart.

“You’re perfect,” you whisper. She flushes, dark, and shakes her head.

“I’m not. I’m just… a decent person who’s not an asshole. I’m nothing special.”

She hands you the hairbrush, which you put to the side. You take the bowl and cloth and say, “Well, _I_ think you are.” She rubs a little awkwardly at the back of her neck and lowers her eyes, but you’re already so much lower where you are, you can see her face anyway. She’s smiling.

As you finish cleaning your face, she sits down beside you, hip against hip and knee against knee, and you don’t realize you’re leaning into her until your head is already on her shoulder.

“What are you going to do next?” she asks.

“Blunt.”

“Sorry.” She turns her head away. You squeeze her hand.

“It’s okay.”

Silence for a while, for too long, but not the awkward getting-to-know-you silence or the comfortable falling-asleep-on-your-chest silence. It’s cold, cutting, there-is-no-going-back silence. An overwhelming, suffocating, what-happens-now silence. And you both know you aren’t going to be the one to break it, because you never have been. Maybe you never will be. Maybe you’re just used to letting everyone else take the floor first and waiting for your turn to speak, to be recognized.

“What are you going to do until your feet heal?” Dani’s voice is softer when she rephrases the question and her hand tightens on yours. She leans into you, her cheek soft and warm atop your head.

“Stay inside and get cabin fever, probably,” you answer. You try to flex your right foot, just a little, and you flinch hard at the stabbing, ripping pull. “But I know that’s not what you meant.”

You lift your head and look away, toward the head of the bed. Still messy, pillows strewn everywhere. Dim, because the shades are pulled, but not dark.

“I’m not going to be able to make my rent, Dani,” you whisper. “They’re going to kick me out.” Your voice cracks on the last word and you push the near-empty bowl to the side and bury your face in your hands.

“My couch is yours, if nothing else,” she says. You whirl towards her, eyes wide. “I mean, even if you only want it as a last resort.”

“What?” you murmur.

She bites her lip and lowers her eyes, turning her head away from you. “I mean, if you can find somewhere better, that’s awesome. I hope you do. I just want you to know that you’re not going to be homeless. Okay?”

“But… we haven’t even been on three dates yet?” you say tentatively. Your voice shakes. She doesn’t lift her head, but she raises her eyes back toward you.

“I know,” she murmurs. “But, I mean… considering everything that’s happened in that time… we’re… I mean, we’re basically there, right?” She lifts her head and clears her throat. “I mean. If you want to be there. The option is open on my end. But if you could get in with Marshall and prefer that I would more than understand.”

“I don’t even know how old you are,” you say.

“Thirty-one,” she answers.

“Or what your religion is.”

She shrugs. “I was told I was born Jewish, but I never practiced. So, atheist, I guess.”

“Or what your family’s like?”

“It’s not. Ward of the state from four to eighteen.”

You pause, lips parted, brows furrowed.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was rushing you into something,” she says softly. “And I’m sorry if that’s what I did. I just wanted you to know that you have a place here if you need it. That’s… that’s all.” She lowers her head, almost like… she’s _ashamed_.

“What’s wrong?” you murmur.

“I feel really fucking stupid.” She turns her head to the left, but not up where you can see her eyes. “Everyone always _did_ say I got attached to people too fast,” she mutters.

“Dani, I don’t… what are you talking about?”

She shakes her head and clears her throat. “This is a terrible time for this conversation,” she says. “We need to figure out where you’re staying, first. Do you want me to leave you alone so you can have some time to call Marshall, or…?”

She starts to stand but you grab her wrist and pull her back down, a little too forcefully.

“Not yet,” you whisper. “I need to know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I…” she pauses, clears her throat, drags her hand down her face and over her neck to rest low on her throat. “I don’t know if ‘I love you’ is the right thing to say because I’m not totally sure what that even means,” she whispers.

Suddenly your heart stutters and you can’t breathe and you’re hot and cold at the same time because your brain is stuck between _oh god did she really just_ and _ohmygodohmygod she feels the same way!?_

“Like, because of my work, I have a pretty shitty track record with relationships. Everyone always jokes that I’m married to my job. And I don’t know if you’re aware, but asking to see you for that second date — when I knew it was going to be one — was _profoundly_ unethical. I mean, they can’t fire me. But you just… past patients are _off limits_ , you know?”

Your fingers spasm before you curl them in on your legs, the soft fabric of Dani’s pajama pants.

“And you asked anyway?”

She nods. Her hand is still there, low on her throat, like she’s either protecting herself or preparing to choke herself at any second. Maybe both.

“Why?”

“I wanted to know more about you. I wanted to know _everything_ about you.” Her fingers tighten. She swallows. They loosen again. “You’re just… I’ve never met a person like you before, Estrella. Starting from the fact that you refused to stay in bed for over a week all the way to telling me to fuck off whenever I crossed a line. You are one of the bravest and strongest people I’ve ever met, but you’re also… you’re so sweet, and smart, and you’re adorable, and you’re so nice to spend time with and you’re beautiful and pretty much every trait I like all wrapped up in a single person. And I care about you a _lot_.”

At some point your hands left your legs and cupped tightly over your mouth. Everything’s blurry and maybe it’s because you’re faint, but no, it’s because you’re about to cry.

“And that one time we fell asleep together on the floor was like going home,” she whispers.

And then you do cry, soft and quiet and just a few tears on your face, because you’ve never had a girlfriend say anything like that before.

But mostly because that’s how _you_ feel, and knowing that she feels it back makes the rest of the bullshit a little less scary.

When Dani looks back over and sees the tears on your face, she suddenly leans close, hands hovering over you — your neck, your shoulder, your hip — but not quite touching.

“Estrella, are you —”

You’re not sure whether to shake or nod your head. All you can manage is a quiet, murmured, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” Because you have to get it out while you still have a chance.


	12. Chapter 12

The next few days, you stay in bed. Dani changes your bandages and cleans your feet and then, finally, shows you how she does it so you can start taking care of them yourself. Marshall got back in touch with you and you gave him the rundown of the situation, and even though he insisted on coming to see you, you turned him down. You _do_ want to see him, _badly_ , his smiling face with his crooked teeth and ridiculous jokes, but you also need some time to yourself, first. Dani is okay, because she’s very good at being there when you need or want her and disappearing when you don’t. But Marshall would smother and mother you and it would drive you insane. You need to wait until you’re a little more capable, at least of getting up and moving around on your own.

When Dani comes home from work on day four, she calls out as she opens the door, “Estrella, I got you something!” The sing-song in her voice piques your interest more than anything else, and you crawl over to the corner of the bed closest the door to try to peek out. All you can see is the corner of the hallway. Bucky jumps off from the bed beside you, trotting up to sit in the doorway.

“What?” you ask. A thunk, and the unmistakable sound of wheels rolling. It stops and Dani peers in, just far enough that you can see her face and her shoulder. Bucky takes a few steps back.

“What?” you ask again. Your eyes are a little bigger and you’re smiling, now. She smiles back and wheels in a big, black office chair and Bucky backs out of the way.

“It’s not a wheelchair, by any means, but they got some new furniture in at the station and were just going to throw it out, so I figured it was worth trying, yeah?”

“Yeah!” you laugh. You clap your hands excitedly, like a small child about to blow out her own birthday candles for the first time. “Bring it over, bring it over.” You gesture her closer even as she walks forward. She starts to wheel it through the door, then jerks to a halt. She steels her arms and pushes hard and it pops over the carpet.

“What was —“

“Yeah, it has a wonky wheel. Which is why they were getting rid of it.”

You shake your head, but you smile and your shoulders soften.

“I mean, if it sucks I can always take it back out to the dumpster. I just thought we could try.”

“Thank you, Dani,” you murmur.

She grins and shrugs one shoulder and says, “Well, yeah,” like this was the most obvious thing in the world she could have done. And you just watch her as she adjusts it and brings it closer so you can climb in, because she doesn’t even _realize_ how thoughtful she is.

It doesn’t drop quite as low as it needs to for easy access, but even though she hovers close and reaches out like she wants to guide you, Dani stays back and lets you do it yourself. After a few false starts, you hop into a roll and plop into the chair, a little askew, one knee still half over an armrest, but you did it, and you did it on your _own_. Once you right yourself, you stretch your legs out and look at your bandaged feet, wiggling the toes of your right foot. You flinch and grit your teeth because it still feels like walking on blades, but at least you _can_ move them. Your left foot is still completely immobile.

“Wait.”

Dani leans over the top of the chair and looks down at you. “Yeah?”

“If I don’t have working feet, how am I going to push myself around? If I can get to a wall I can use my hands, but your living room is… mostly empty.”

She opens her mouth. Her smile falters and she looks at the ceiling like it might have an answer, but it must not, because when she looks back down at you she just mutters, “Shit.”

You use your hand to push yourself in a circle from the bed so you can look at her face to face. She stands with her hands on her hips as you attempt to crank up the seat a little higher, but with no feet to shift your weight to, you just end up staying in the same place and creaking a little.

“I have a broom,” she finally says. “You could… push yourself around.”

“Dani.” She looks from your knees to your face, fingers curled under her chin while she thinks. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” She starts to frown, but then you lean closer and say, “I fucking _love_ it. I’ll be like a goddamn _pirate_.” You laugh brightly, your first real, honest-to-god laugh since all this started, and you actually _clap_ with excitement. “Marshall is going to be so jealous.”

“Yeah, about him,” Dani grins. She grabs the chair and pushes you out to the kitchen closet where she keeps her cleaning supplies. “If you want to invite him over, you’re welcome. It probably gets lonely with just you and Bucky while I’m at work. Just, if he ends up spending the night I want him on the couch, that’s all.” You lean back to look up at her. She glances back down and says, “Well, you know, the bedroom… the bedroom is _ours_.”

“It… is?” you whisper. Her face is a little pink now, but you’ve never seen her posture surer.

“Well, yeah. Even if it ends up being just for a while. As long as you’re here. And if you move, that doesn’t change when you come back to visit.”

She parks you next to the closet and opens the door, blocking you out.

She shuffles around inside, clattering and clunking and clinking, and you just sit, head tilted toward the bedroom and thinking, over and over, _our bedroom. Ours._

 

* * *

 

It’s three weeks later and you’re still not able to work any job that requires any amount of standing or walking, and every place you’ve tried — no standards, this time, you’ll take minimum wage at eight hours a week if they’ll have you —has turned you down. Again.

It’s too late. You don’t have enough. You can’t make your rent in time, and when you send Marshall over with your keys to pick up the most important of your things, the lock’s been changed.

He drops a half-full — clean, thank god — trash bag on the floor beside you. You’re in your chair with your row-broom and he sits beside you on the couch. “I went dumpster diving and did the best I could,” he says. “Your makeup and bath stuff was mostly salvageable, since they threw it in bags. I know how expensive it is so I grabbed as much as I could find. I got some clothes, but not a lot. A few dresses, a jacket, some jeans and t-shirts. All your really nice stuff was gone.” He looks up at you mournfully, like it’s his fault it’s all gone, and you just want to stroke his hair and assure him _no, no, it’s not his fault, it’s yours_. “Laptop’s gone. Someone probably took it. DVDs are gone. CDs are mostly broken. Your mattress is out by the dumpster but it’s covered in crap. Someone took your couch and TV. The shelves are in pieces.”

“Was the red cookie tin —”

He shakes his head and you bury your face in your hands, biting down hard on your lip to keep from sobbing.

“What was in it?” he asks.

“Everything.” Your voice catches. It breaks, and the words tumble out on the backs of your sobs. “All my money. All my real jewelry. Diamonds, gold, pearls. Everything that was actually worth anything.”

He hugs you tight, and even though he’s covered in grit and smells like dirt, you hug back, hard, as he whispers, “I’m sorry, Estrella, I’m so sorry.”

You stay like that for ages, for eons, and cry as he holds you and rubs your back and strokes your hair like the brother you were supposed to have but didn’t find until it was too late.

 

* * *

 

Neither of you sleep, but he stays over. Dani gets out at six, you say, so she’ll be home by seven at the latest. Up until this point, everything was a well, _maybe_ , but nothing _probable_ , nothing that would actually happen to _you_ , because you’d pull through and make it like you always do. Except this time. And now you have almost nothing. Your cash is gone. You don’t have a savings account. You’re too injured to work. You don’t even have your own books or DVDs. You have to find ones you like in Dani’s collection.

You have to start over, completely from scratch.

Once upon a time, you were good at that. But things have changed, and you don’t know if you have the strength in you to keep forcing yourself through anymore.

 

* * *

 

You both say you aren’t going to sleep, but when the lock on the front door clicks, you blink rapidly and sit up, rubbing at the indent the broom left on your cheek. Marshall is asleep on the couch, half falling to the floor.

“Morning,” Dani says. She drops a kiss on your head as she passes, pulling her uniform shirt off as she makes her way to the bathroom for her morning shower.

“They evicted me,” you whisper.

She turns around, the shirt half pulled up, showing just the grey tank top underneath. “Hm?”

“They evicted me.” You lift your head and speak up, this time. Dani stills. Her mouth opens, then closes, then she pulls the shirt the rest of the way off and drops it on the floor. She takes a step toward you and just then seems to notice Marshall for the first time.

She gestures at him with her thumb and hikes an eyebrow.

“I sent him to get my stuff but they’d already changed my locks. He got some of it out of the dumpster but most of it is gone. All my money is gone. All my…” You breathe in, sharp, hiccupy, and it comes out too hard and too fast and you cling tightly to the broom handle and rest the top of your head against it. Suddenly, the broom is gone and Dani is kneeling in front of you, her hands gentle on your face. You lift your hands and gesture vaguely but violently, like that will fix everything, like that will put it all back together, but it _can’t_.

“Everything’s gone,” you sob. “Everything. All that’s left is what Marshall brought me in that bag and it’s not even _full_.”

And then Dani is crosslegged on the floor and you’re curled up tightly in her lap with your nose in her throat, and it doesn’t matter that she’s sticky and sweaty and smells like bleach and dirt, she’s here, and Marshall is there behind you, and you’re not alone. At least you’re not alone this time. At least you have that.

“You can stay with me,” she whispers. “As long as you want.”

You drag in another shuddering breath and this sob comes out even louder, and she hugs you tighter, rubbing your back with one hand and gently scratching your head and neck with the other. “Sh, sh, sh,” she whispers. “We’ll get through this. _You’ll_ get through this. You’re tough and strong as _hell_ , and I _know_ that you’ll figure this out once you’ve had enough time.”

For a while, she just holds you while you cry, because even though it wasn’t much, and you hated what you had to do to keep it, it was your _home_. It was _yours_. You made it and earned it and nobody could take it away from you.

Until now.

After a while, once you’ve calmed down a bit, Dani murmurs, “Will you be okay for maybe five minutes while I take a quick shower to wash the grit off?”

You nod, your face still tight in her shoulder.

“Sure?”

You nod again.

“Okay.” She lets you go and stands, then helps you back into your chair. “I’ll start a pot of coffee. Wake Marshall up so we can all talk when I get out, because we need to figure out where you’re going to stay.”

You nod. “Yeah,” you murmur.

She kisses the top of your head once, twice, then hesitates and does it one more time before heading to the bathroom. You pick up your broom, leaning on it like a walking stick as you watch Marshall sleep. How he does it, you don’t know, with half of his body hanging off the couch. You sniffle again, but you smile as you rub at your nose.

At first, you just gently jostle his leg. Nothing. A little harder. He still doesn’t wake. So you push yourself a little farther away so you can poke his cheek with the end of your broom. He groans and bats it away.

“Wake up, Marshall,” you sing-song.

“No,” he whines. He drags it out, long and sad.

“Dani’s home. She jumped in the shower, but just for a minute. We need to figure shit out.”

He bats the lingering broom handle away and you withdraw it. “I assumed you were staying with me?”

You frown. He scratches the back of his head as he sits up and he yawns widely. When he sees your face, he slowly, unsurely lowers his arm.

“I mean, just… we’d always talked about it? Like, you don’t have to if you want to stay here, I just kinda figured —”

“I don’t know, Marshall,” you say softly. “That’s what I need to figure out.”

“Okay,” he says. “Obviously we’ll want to do what ends up being best for you.”

You give him a look that could wither forests and he drops it.


	13. Chapter 13

Dani’s in and out of the shower in five minutes, maybe less, and in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of coffee. She holds up the pot and gestures at you. “Estrella?”

“Thank you.”

“Marshall?”

“What kind of sugar do you have?” he asks. She furrows her brow at the strange question.

“Uh, white, brown, raw, and maple?”

His shoulders perk and he nods. “I’ve never had maple in coffee before. Let’s try that. No milk.”

“Vegan?” she asks.

“Uh. Yeah.” He seems surprised that she’d even ask the question.

“We went to that vegan friendly place you like on your first date, and I mentioned you went there all the time,” you explain.

“And she remembered something stupid like that?”

“Not stupid,” she says. “Food is important.” You both look up as she drags the little table back to the middle of the couch with her foot and puts your mugs down. “Right back with mine, and we’ll talk,” she says.

When she joins you she pulls up the ottoman she keeps in the corner and positions it across from the both of you. Along with her coffee mug, she also puts a plate of scones. She glances apologetically at Marshall. “They were from someone at the station so I don’t know what’s in them, but we can probably just assume regular scone ingredients. I’ll scrounge up something for you later.”

Marshall holds up his hands and grins, lopsided, just barely showing his crooked but perfectly white teeth. “It’s good,” he says.

Dani gives you a look that clearly says, “I’m feeding him before he leaves” and you chuckle into your hand. Marshall frowns, at first, but then he sighs and rolls his eyes and shrugs, because, “I guess you’re there, yeah?”

You both turn to him.

“I mean, you’re talking in gesture. You’ve arrived.”

You smile and laugh a little, managing to just pull your coffee away from your face before you snort into it. Dani smiles, but she’s not pink this time. No embarrassment or unsurety, not any more.

It’s terrifying, like something unfamiliar breathing on the back of your neck that leaves your hands shaking and your body racked with nerves. But it’s also safe, despite that. That _thing_ behind you can stare you down and breathe all it wants, but it can’t reach you. Not here.

You take a sip of your coffee. The dull clink of the heavy clay on the table crashes into the silence like a broken dish. _Deep breaths, Estrella_ , you have to remind yourself, and you look up, at Marshall beside you, then Dani across. Then back at your hands around the mug on the table.

“Well,” Marshall starts, “realistically, we have two options.” He turns to you but you don’t look up, eyes on the dark brown coffee, the slightest white swirl of milk that hasn’t quite mixed in yet. “You can stay with me or you can stay with Dani.” He looks over to her. “I assume?”

“Yeah, of course,” she nods. “And if you pick Marshall, you’re still welcome over here any time.”

“But I can’t —” you clear your throat so you don’t choke on it again. _Breathe_. “I’m useless. I’m broke. I don’t even have anything to sell. My feet are so messed up I can’t even do any useful work around the house, much less get a real job.”

“And?” Dani says. You finally look up.

“I’m not looking to hire a _maid_ , Estrella. You’re my _girlfriend_. My apartment is always open, no matter what, but especially when you really need it.”

“Yeah, dude.” Marshall slouches back in the couch, coffee cup held between his legs. “I mean, except the girlfriend part. I don’t like you because of how useful you could potentially be, Estrella.” You turn to him, now. “I like you because you’re my best friend, and whether it’s here with Dani or on my couch, I’m not leaving until I know you’re going to have a safe roof over your head. Jobs and shit come later. Right now the priority is getting you a place to stay and making sure your feet can heal.”

You look back at Dani again. She raises her eyebrows and shrugs, a silent, _well, exactly_.

Even though your eyes are a little watery and your mouth almost starts to tremble, this time you manage not to cry when you say, “You guys are amazing.”

“Uh, duh,” Marshall grins. You laugh and nudge his knee with yours as best you can from your awkward position.

 

* * *

 

You talk for a while, about the pros and cons of each space. Since you don’t have school or work to attend to, you could pretty much go anywhere and not have to worry about keeping hold of any ties. Marshall is a little closer to the interesting parts of downtown Tempe, but you have no money anyway. Dani lives right down the street from a huge library and there are a few grocery stores within walking distance depending on which way you go. There’s a park on the other side of the neighborhood for the cooler months. Your clinic is smack in the middle of both of them, so either way you’d need a ride every four to five months for your new hormone and needle prescriptions.

Marshall has been your friend for years and you’ve only known Dani for _maybe_ two months.

Marshall lives with two roommates who you don’t know well who might get sick of you if you can’t find work and contribute.

Dani lives with her dog.

At Marshall’s place, you’d have a couch, although you’ve slept on it before and it _is_ incredibly comfortable.

But here with Dani, you’d have a bed, and more importantly, you’d have _Dani_ in it. Even though it’s impossible to guess where she could end up at any point of a shift, the station itself isn’t far from her apartment. And Bucky’s here, and if the future is going to be anything like the past four days, you’re going to need him.

The buses are shitty in both areas.

There are dozens and dozens more things to consider and weigh, but when you get to the end of your lists, you realize you’d already made your decision all the way back at the beginning.

“I think…” you start. You clear your throat. _She_ invited _you_. You shouldn’t have to be afraid to take her up on her offer. But you are, and your hands tremble so much you have to put down your coffee. “I think I want to stay here.”

Dani and Marshall share a look.

“You sure?” Marshall asks gently.

You nod.

And you don’t say so out loud — how _could_ you? — but you know if things go wrong, Marshall’s couch will always be there for you. Always.

The next ten minutes or so, you just sit around and talk about unimportant things and drink coffee and eat scones and Dani finds a box of cookies that are accidentally vegan for Marshall and puts those out on the table, too. But then, finally, Marshall sighs and stands and says, “I really need to get going. I’ve got a shit ton of homework to do and I have to have it sent in midnight tomorrow.”

Dani stands, too, and you wrap your arms around Marshall in a loose, tentative hug. The tension in his shoulders makes it clear he’s a little annoyed that you’re picking Dani even though he’s been offering you a space for over six months, but,

“You know I have to come into things in my own time,” you murmur. You gently rest your hand in the small of his back and all the animosity drains out of him. He crouches and gently bumps his forehead against yours.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Stubborn jerk.”

You smile.

He rests his hand on the back of your head, his arm mirroring yours.

“I’m just glad you’re going to be safe now,” he whispers. “And if anything happens, you still have a place with me. You could move to Italy for eight years and Spain for another two, and then stay for a week in every city you pass on your way back, and when you got here my couch would still be yours.” He gently shakes your head, as if trying to get his words to stick.

You nod. “Thank you, Marshall. Really.”

He smiles and gently bops his nose against yours.

“Uh, yeah. Always.”

You pull apart and pick up his near-empty mug as you and Dani accompany him to the door.

He looks over his shoulder as he opens it and says, “Keep in touch with any updates or changes, okay? And take care of your feet.”

You purse your lips and give him a thumbs up. He laughs, and he and Dani share one of those weird one-handed half man-hugs.

“Take care,” she says.

“You too.”

And she closes the door behind him, taking his cup from you so you can better handle your broomstick to get yourself back to the couch. She’s tried pushing you around, but you get… snippy. Anything you can do on your own, you _will_ do on your own.

The days drag for ages while you’re cooped up in the apartment, even on Dani’s days off, but somehow the weeks pass by so _fast_ , and suddenly you’ve been there for over a month. It’s so comfortable, it feels like you always have been. Eventually your feet mostly heal up. Walking still hurts, but it’s manageable for short distances and you can stand for short amounts of time.

If there’s a driver, you can even go out now. But you don’t, not much, because you have no money and no source of income to change that. Dani says she doesn’t mind paying for your lunch or your coffee or your movie ticket, but… _you_ should be able to do it.

Dani’s stressed over and over that rent and utilities are not a problem, Estrella, and that includes internet so you can keep looking for work here at home (which has brought you absolutely no luck so far), but you still have your own shit to take care of; your phone bill, your medical debt. Your shots, when you have to get your refill in a little over a month and a half.

One day, Dani wakes up from her first sleep off shift and comes out into the living room, pinning a sheet of paper beside the door. You look up from where you sit on the couch and stand, hobbling over, using walls and furniture to keep as much of your weight off of your feet as possible. Dani pulls out your rolling chair, and you lean heavily on the backrest, but don’t sit.

“Okay, so, we both know that right now you’re not really able to work,” she starts. Your mouth tightens and you look down. “And that’s _okay_ ,” she stresses. You look up again, but hesitantly, now. “So, I made this. When I was a kid, one of the foster houses I was at for a while had these charts, you know, you do the thing and get a star and at the end of the week you get a treat of some kind.”

Okay?” you say, a little cluelessly, because you never had anything like that. But it does make sense.

“So this is yours,” she says. She taps the paper twice. You look at it again, really, and at your angle you can’t really see any of the words but the grid is clear. “Each chore has a monetary worth, from one dollar to ten depending on the complexity and difficulty. Simple things like dishes are daily, one for loading and washing, another for unloading. Then there’s stuff like cleaning the bathroom and organizing cupboards and things that have different amounts based on what amount of stuff you have to handle.” She flattens her hand on the wall and leans against it, turning back to you. “That way, I’m not just giving you money for doing nothing, but you still have a way to at least bring a small amount of income in.”

Both of which have been eating at you since the night you stopped working. You scoot the chair closer and look up to see it better. The list is _huge_.

“I’m not expecting you to do everything,” Dani says. You look over at her again and realize your brow is furrowed tightly. “This is like a… mix and match. The ones that you can do, you can do. The ones you can’t, I’ll take care of or help you with.” She stands up straight and knocks her knuckle against the sheet.

“I’m still paying the big things. Rent, utilities, groceries. But then you can have your own funds to pay your own bills and buy your own stuff, since that was one of the things you were so worried about when we moved in. Does this sound like something you can live with until you can get into a better place, financially?”

“So… basically I would be a paid housewife?” you ask.

She shrugs and looks over at you, but when she sees you smiling, she smiles back. “You could say that, if you wanted.”

You curl your fingers under your chin thoughtfully. “Do I get a cocktail dress and pearls like in the TV shows?”

She laughs and gently trails her fingers down your neck, where they stop to rest on your shoulder.

“You didn’t answer my question,” you grin.

She grins back. Her lips almost start to part, but then she seems to reconsider and looks back at the chart again.

“What?” you ask.

She shakes her head, kisses the top of yours, and murmurs, “I’m going to take a shower. We’ll figure out… breakfast?”

“Lunch,” you grin.

“Meal,” she laughs. “When I get out.”


	14. Chapter 14

It doesn’t take long to settle into a housework routine. Once you can stay on your feet for longer stretches of time, you even dig out some of Dani’s cookbooks and try to teach yourself basic things.

Your first chocolate chip cookies go in the trash, and the second are a little crunchy (they’re supposed to be chewy), but the third turn out great. You’ve never felt so accomplished as you do when you lay out the plate of cookies on the little dining room table next to two mugs and her French press, ready to go when she walks in the door from her dentist checkup.

You clap excitedly and bounce a little on your toes. You grit your teeth and flinch and totter to one of the chairs, because you’re getting better, but you’re not  _well_  yet.

When Dani opens the door, she pauses, then slowly steps in and closes the door behind her with a quiet ‘click.’

“What’s this?” she asks softly, almost disbelieving.

“Cookies!” you grin.

“From?”

“The oven!” you laugh.

Her eyebrows raise and her smile pulls up with it as she hangs her jacket by the door. “You made these?”

You nod.

“For…?”

“For you.”

Her hand rests on her chest like she’s suddenly out of breath and she sits down across from you.

“Really?”

“Yeah?” Suddenly you’re unsure. She’s not allergic, right? She did have all the ingredients around, so why would she have something she couldn’t eat? “Did I fuck up?” you say softly.

“No,” she whispers. She shakes her head and laughs softly, and you think maybe you can hear tears, but when she looks at you her face is completely composed. “This is literally the kindest thing anybody has ever done for me.”

“Then you had some shitty friends.” It tumbles out of your mouth before you think, and you flinch back as soon as it does.

“Yeah.” She nods. “I really did.” She reaches out across the table for your hand. You give it to her, and she kisses your knuckles, your palm, the tip of your finger.

“Thank you, Estrella,” she whispers. “Really.”

 

* * *

 

Over the course of the next month or so, you tackle everything from breakfasts, desserts, dinners, vegetables, and meats that don’t involve taking out bones, because gross. Some things burn and some things overcook and turn out soggy or rubbery or sometimes you mis-measure and things turn out too runny or too thick. But eventually you get a small but reliable number of recipes in your mental catalogue. You still have to reference the cookbooks, but only to double check things, like how much thyme you need or if it’s ½ teaspoon baking soda or ¾.

You could never work in a restaurant at a skill level this low, but maybe if you keep practicing, you could find something at a little café in the kitchen. If you can find a place that’s willing to overlook that stupid M on your driver’s license. There are so many things you could do if it weren’t for that stupid fucking letter.

Things aren’t ideal, but they’re okay, and things haven’t been for so, so long, that okay feels like the best thing in the whole world.

 

* * *

 

February comes, and Dani comes to you one afternoon while you’re reading in the bedroom.

“I need to talk to you,” she says.

“What?” you murmur. The warm room goes cold. You’re suffocating. Your heart is going to tear out of your chest, you just know it, you just know —

“We need to talk about the apartment,” she continues, and you nearly faint.

Your feet are mostly well by now, except for your left heel. You’ve gotten used to walking on your toes. You follow Dani out to the table, where a couple of packets of paper are strewn across the table.

You both sit, and you start to ask  _what’s wrong_? but Dani interrupts you and starts first.

“The lease expires at the end of next month,” she says. “At the time I moved in here I wasn’t planning on staying for the long term. I was actually planning on working for a while and saving up to relocate to California.” She looks up at you. “But then you came along, and things have changed, obviously.”

You frown, but then you see her smile, and you smile tentatively back.

“I know that originally you staying here was going to be more of a short term thing, until you could get back on your feet,” she continues. “But it… it kind of feels like it’s turning into something long term?”

Her voice is nervous, unsure. You don’t answer, because you don’t know. You haven’t been thinking about it. You’ve been taking things a day a time, and you  _like_  it that way, and you don’t  _want_  to think about it. But if her lease is expiring, then you have to make some kind of decision.Which means commitment, which means vulnerability, because it means you are officially relying on her to take care of you until you can start bringing your own money in, and you can’t go back out on the street again, you  _can’t_ , not after knowing what this feels like —

“We have a couple of options,” she continues, but her voice is softer now, her movements more calculated. She watches you closely, because she can tell something is wrong. “We can renew and stay here, but rent goes up by about $200. We can relocate to a different neighborhood. Or…” she clears her throat, looks away, back at you. “Or we could continue on to where I was going in the first place. I was planning on Berkley. You could come with me.”

You swallow.

“Or…”

_Or we could split up._

You shake your head, just at the idea, no, you  _can’t_.

“We can move into a two-bedroom if you want your own space,” Dani continues. “I know it’s kind of cramped here. Or find a bigger one bedroom.”

You swallow and it’s like trying to shove a football through a drinking straw.

“Please say something,” she whispers. She lowers the papers to the table.

Your throat is tight and your eyes are burning because how do you explain that that’s not possible to someone who doesn’t even understand what impossible  _means_? How do you say  _I can’t_  to someone who’s never known anything but  _I can_?

“You’ve always said you need to get out of this shithole town. Berkley’s as good a place as any. You’ll be safer and you’ll have so many more opportunities.”

Your clenched fists are shaking, your arms, your shoulders, and you bow your head.

“Let me take care of you, just… just for a while longer, until we can figure out something that works better for you.  _Please_.” Her voice cracks. You look up. Her face is ruddy and her eyebrows drawn and she means it now, but what about a week from now, six months, a year? Will she still mean it then? Things have been amazing so far. Beautiful. Perfect. But just for now. There’s no such thing as forever.

“Estrella —”

“How am I supposed to let myself rely on someone when everyone who I’ve ever had to rely on has  _left_?” you finally scream. “How am I supposed to let someone take care of me when the only person I can trust is  _myself_?  _How_ , Dani?”

Her brow knits tighter and she almost chokes when she crosses her arms tightly, protectively, over her chest and asks, “Is that what you think of me, too?”

“I… no!” you shout, throwing your hands up, helpless, like maybe if you flail them around enough one of them will bump into something that makes sense. “Not… not right  _now_. But what if things change? What about when they change and you —”

“And I  _what_?”

You curl in on yourself, tightly, pushing out your shoulders and crossing your arms over your chest, tucking your hands up tight underneath them, creating a tiny, breakable little shell in the best way you know how.

“I’ve lost almost everyone else, Dani,” you finally murmur, and you’re crying now, softly, your hair falling in a curtain over your ruddy face. “I can’t lose you, too.” You shake your head. “I can’t lose you, too.” And you keep repeating it, again, again, a pathetic, terrified mantra, as if you say it enough, maybe, maybe it will protect you. Maybe it will protect both of you and the little life you’ve started to build.

“And if I get too close, I will,” you finally sob, and you lean back even as you reach forward, for her hand, her wrist, anything,  _anything_  to connect yourself to her even just for now.

Her hand is warm on your forearm, but you’re afraid to look up into her face.

“No, you won’t,” she whispers.

“I always do,” you whisper back.

“You don’t trust me?” Her voice is so small and she looks so  _hurt_ , like you just slapped her across the face without any provocation.

“No!” you shout. “I… no, yes, I, fuck, I trust you Dani, I  _do_! But things change and people change and a year from now we’ll both be completely different people. I’m a completely different person from when you met me in September! I know you mean what you’re saying now but what if…” Suddenly you stop screaming, your voice drops, tiny, quiet. “But what if something changes and you don’t anymore?”

“If any changes come, they won’t be on my end.” The words are soft, but almost challenging, and she stares you directly in the eye.

You swallow hard but don’t speak.

“I love you, Estrella. And I trust you, and I’m willing to stay here or move somewhere else in the city or leave the state entirely with you. But if you don’t trust me enough to be willing to do that after all this time, then… then I don’t know what happens next.” She pauses and drops her head halfway to the table, tightening her hands around the back of her neck. “The only other option is I move to another apartment and you head in with Marshall.” With a heavy sigh, she clears her throat and looks back up at you. “That’s not a threat of a breakup. We don’t have to live together to be together. But those are our options, and that’s where we stand.”

She loosely stacks the papers and shoves them over to the side of the table.

“We have to know by the end of the month. They expect a thirty-day notice if I plan to move.”

_I want to stay with you_ , you want to say.  _I love you so much_ , you want to say.  _I’d go anywhere with you_ , you want to say.

But all you can manage is a tiny, squeaky, “Okay.”

The conversation ends.


	15. Chapter 15

Both of you leave it for the rest of the day, but things are different, now. Dani still kisses the top of your head and touches your waist as she walks by and wraps her arm around you when you sit on the couch to watch a movie, but there’s something distant about it. You know this. You know this because you recognize it in yourself, and you realize, this is what you’ve done to everyone you love. _I love you_ , you’d say, while keeping them at arm’s length so nobody could get too close, not easily. And as much as Dani is sometimes able to duck underneath or wiggle past, your arm is still up, palm out, a bright red STOP sign. Stay away. Do not touch.

But you love her so much, and if you leave, or if she leaves you, it will _kill_ you. Just thinking about it makes your heart beat fast enough to rip through your chest and your throat close so tight you can barely breathe. Just thinking about it fills your eyes with thick, hot tears and makes you grit your teeth so hard you start to get a headache.

And after feeling like that all day, on the verge of crying but somehow tough enough to keep it hidden, you take Dani’s hand and stand in front of the TV.

“Can we talk?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” she says. She turns off the TV and lets you lead her to the table.

For minutes that drag into eons, you sit there, playing with the one ring you still keep on your finger —the silver and amethyst one —while Dani curls and uncurls her fingers in and out of her palms. Bucky sits quietly between you at the foot of the table, as if he can sense something is about to happen. Hopefully it’s something good. Hopefully, this time, you won’t screw it up.

“I’m sorry,” you finally blurt. Dani looks up, eyebrows raised. Clearly this wasn’t how she was expecting the conversation to start.

“Estrella —”

You hold up your hand. “Let me… please,” you say. “I’ve got to say this all at once or I might not be able to say it at all.”

Dani falls silent. She nods.

“I have serious commitment issues,” you begin. It’s admirable how well Dani is able to keep her face neutral, but you can still see the slight bounce up of her eyebrow and the tiny smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“And… and that’s because, with the exception of Marshall, I’ve never been able to rely on anyone but myself. I tried, and I got fucked over, and it kept happening again and again and finally it just seemed better to _stop_ trying. To just be alone and have bullshit surface relationships that don’t matter, because then it doesn’t hurt so much when they leave.” You clear your throat and look up at Dani’s face again.

“But that’s not what I want with you, Dani. I want to start trying again. I love you, and I’ve meant it every time I said it. But… Jesus, I’m so fucked up.”

She smiles, holding back a laugh, but when yours bubbles out, hers follows, softly.

“It’s okay,” she says.

You hold up your hand again. “Not yet. Please.”

She nods.

“And… shit, this is fucking insane,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Dani, and you push your hair off your forehead and grab the back of your neck nervously. “You were right. I’ve been wanting to get out of this place for ages. I _need_ to, if I’m ever going to be successful anywhere. Berkley’s as good a place as anywhere. I’m sure we can find a trans friendly clinic where I can get my hormones. I mean, it’s the _Bay Area_. That’s all I really need urgently right now.” You clear your throat and tap your knuckles against the table, the drumline of a song you heard on a TV show a while ago. “Finding work might not be easy. But it will be _possible_ , and here, it’s not.”

You finally smile and meet her eyes and say, “And, I mean, you’re a paramedic. You can find work anywhere.”

“Yeah,” she laughs, but it’s a little wet, and suddenly, your throat is, too.

“I can finally start over,” you whisper. “For real. No more bumping into old classmates or having to deal with people who have seen me change as I transition. Brand new. Hi, I’m Estrella Diaz, nice to meet you.”

You reach across the table and she takes your hands. Warm, work-worn, callused, gentle. Everything she is, mirrored in her palms.

“A _real_ job, Dani. With real hours and a real paycheck. Where I’m safe even if I’m not necessarily respected. Maybe I can even find intern work at the clinic I end up at for my hormones. Even if I’m just answering phones or filing papers.”

“Yeah,” she grins. Her smile softens and she says, “So, is this… is this a ‘yes’?”

“This is a ‘goddamn hell yes’,” you laugh.

She laughs and leaps up, kissing the top of your head and running her hand over your shoulder as she passes you.

“I’ll get my laptop. We have a shit ton of planning to do and only about two months to do it in.”

You grin and clap your hands in excitement. The butterflies they always talk about bursting out in your stomach at times like this have escaped into your head, into all of your limbs, and you’re so thrilled you could faint.

The rest of the day is coffee and sandwiches and sitting crouched over the laptop. Dani had originally planned on a studio, she says, but do you think you’ll need a one bedroom?

“Can you afford it?” you ask.

“It depends on the neighborhood,” she says.

“Look at all the good ones,” you say tapping at the screen. “We’ll see what’s in your price range and go from there. A one-bedroom would be better, but there are worse things than sharing a cramped studio with you.” She shoots you a half grin and you smile back. “And I want a safe neighborhood, and I don’t care if that means a smaller space. I don’t want to be afraid to go out at night anymore.”

Dani curls her fingers around yours and squeezes, a silent, _I understand_.

You spend so much time looking into neighborhoods and cities and suburbs that you lose track of it, and suddenly Dani has to go into work on only the previous night’s sleep.

“I’ll be fine,” she says. She kisses you goodbye as she heads out the door, and you lock it behind her.

You go back to the couch and pull the computer into your lap, bookmarking all the tabs in a new folder that you title “apartment search”. You spend the next hour or so looking up trans friendly clinics for the uninsured and you are not disappointed: in the general area that you and Dani are looking at, there are four. Two of them are accessible by BART and the other two by buses. You bookmark all of their contact pages, too, and make a note of the ones that are actively taking patients. Three out of four. That’s more than the number of clinics that even _exist_ here.

Your phone rings and you paw it out as it vibrates in the cushions. Eventually you have to look away and dig around to find it.

“Hello?”

“Estrellaaaaaaa,” Marshall says.

You laugh. “What’s up?”

“Guess who’s got a date for next Friday.”

He pauses for dramatic effect, and you let him.

“This guy!” he shouts.

“Awesome!”

“Yeah! He’s super hot and really nice and I’m just overall pretty excited about it. But enough about me, what have you been up to? It’s been a few weeks.”

“Okay,” you say. You hold up your hand in defense, even though he’s not even here to see it. “Before you get upset, keep in mind this _just happened_ earlier today, and we’ve been really busy working out the details. So I was going to call you at some point tonight while she was at work and you just beat me to it. So. So you can’t get mad because I wasn’t hiding anything.”

“Holy shit,” Marshall murmurs. “She proposed, didn’t she?”

“What? _No_!”

“Oh.” His voice lowers in disappointment and he hums thoughtfully.

“We’re, uh. Okay. So the lease is up soon and before I came into the picture, Dani was planning to just up and move to Berkley, right?”

“Uh-huh,” he says slowly.

“And, so, uh. Um. Well, we were trying to figure out where to go from here. She offered to stay in the city, said we could move to a bigger place if we wanted, or stay here, or whatever, right.”

“Right…”

“And…” you take in a deep breath, and you let it out in one big huff. “And there’s nothing here for me, Marshall. We both know that. You’re my favorite person in the whole world, but —”

“I know,” he says. “No one person is enough to keep you here now that you finally have a chance to get out.”

You smile and breathe a little easier.

“I’m glad you understand,” you murmur.

“Of course. And to California! Man, that’s like The Promised Land. I’d fucking hop in the back with the dog and go with you if I could.”

You laugh, and he laughs, and you know that even with the extra distance that will soon be between you, with Marshall, you’ll be able to stay as close as you’ve ever been.

* * *

 

There isn’t much to move. Now you understand why the apartment’s always been so sparse. Why there were never any pictures on the walls.

“Because then it’s official,” Dani finally said. “And once you make it official, it’s that much more painful when you inevitably leave, even if you’re leaving for something better.”

It was just a holding place, somewhere to sleep and house the dog. It wasn’t actually a home until you showed up.

You both kind of ruined everything for each other, you realize, but in the best possible way.

The U-Haul barely dents your budget. You can make the drive in a single day, even though you’ll be exhausted by the time you get in. The loft apartment you’ll be renting is tiny, but the Skype interview with the landlord showed that it’s clean and bright and on a nice street. It’s relatively quiet and the space is laid out in such a way that it will be easy to maximize. After the interview Dani pulls it up on Google maps, just to be sure it all lines up. It does.

Your foot never healed properly. Sometimes you think that maybe Dani was unable to get all the glass out. You walk with the barest of limps now and when you hit your left heel at just the wrong angle it shoots daggers up your leg. But you’re still well enough to help get everything down the stairs. A bed, a TV, and a few pieces of furniture? Simple. Everything else is just boxes: clothes, dishes, shelf-stable food that’s still left so you don’t have to start from scratch. Truly, there isn’t much. There never was, not for either of you.

The two months fly, barely days. Both of you start to get twitchy, and since you’re paying the same whether you’re in either apartment or not, you pack up your U-Haul and turn in the keys a week early. Once everything is inside, it’s clear you probably could have even gone a size down.

“I hope nothing gets thrown around too much,” Dani says.

She pulls the sliding door closed.

Bucky runs in circles around your feet, maybe thinking you’re going to the park, and the moment you open up the backdoor, he jumps in, ears straight up and panting loudly in the middle of the seat.

“Good boy.” Both you and Dani say it simultaneously, and you look at each other, and you laugh.

You shut the door behind him and walk over to your side of the car. Your hand lingers on the handle, then your fingers fall away and you look over the top of the car at Dani.

“This could be a disaster,” you say. Your voice shakes, but you’re grinning like a madwoman, brighter than you can remember smiling since… since _ever_.

Dani looks up at you and shrugs, but she’s smiling, too. “The worst decision either of us has ever made.”

“I don’t have a backup. I don’t know anyone there.”

“Neither do I.”

“But you have money. You have career experience. You’re a paramedic; you can find work anywhere.”

"Yeah,” she says. Her smile fades a little and she looks directly into your eyes. “Whatever ends up happening, I’m not going to let you end up back on the street, Estrella. I want you to know that. Even if we don’t work out, if things get tense, you are not going anywhere until you have somewhere safe to stay. I _promise_.”

But now, you don’t feel like that’s something you need to worry about anymore, and you can tell by the look on her face that she feels the same way. Even so, hearing her say it out loud helps, and it’s the last push you need. You smack the top of the car and open the door. She grins, and you both plop inside and close your doors in unison. She punches in the new information into her GPS.

And as you buckle your seatbelt, the automated voice says, “Berkley, California, 774 miles. Turn left at El Camino Road.”

Dani smiles at you. You smile and lightly clap your hands, bouncing in your seat.

She looks back over her shoulder to check for traffic and starts the car.

 

**The End**


End file.
